


B - R - I - G - H - T

by TheCosmicMushroom



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Ableism, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, Established Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Multi, Mutism, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23389159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCosmicMushroom/pseuds/TheCosmicMushroom
Summary: "It’s tempting to write him off, just another young, misguided prostitute—because there is little doubt in his mind how this kid earns his money—but when uncanny blue eyes meet his own, Gil sees so much more."[An AU in which Gil is a detective trying to track down a killer targeting prostitutes on the Upper East Side, and Malcolm is a prostitute with a knack for turning up at his crime scenes.]
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 464
Kudos: 221





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Got bitten by this idea and couldn't rest until I'd written it! I will be updating the tags as we go along, so please be sure to check them before each chapter!
> 
> **Content warnings will be listed in the end notes of each chapter. If you have additional questions or concerns about any of the warnings or want a little more info about them, please feel free to reach out to me on Twitter[here](https://twitter.com/cosmic_mushroom) or on Tumblr [here](https://cosmic-mushroom.tumblr.com) or on Discord as TheCosmicMushroom#1348.**
> 
> Beta'd by the incomparable [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa)! Please, if you aren't familiar with their work, give them a peek. _They're amazing._
> 
> 5/21/20 - And NOW with absolutely STUNNING cover art done by [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa), as well!!

Years as a beat cop never acclimated Gil to the shriek of his ringtone dragging him, kicking and screaming, from a sound sleep at three in the morning. The fog of a pleasant dream lifts, leaving behind a memory of fever-hot skin and the taste of sweat. Groaning in protest, he rolls over and reaches toward the nightstand.

“We got another one,” JT shouts into the receiver to be heard over ambient sirens; Gil can feel the beginnings of a headache just beneath his temples. “Corner of 77th and York.”

“On my way.”

He throws the blanket off of his legs and swings them over the edge of the bed before his exhausted brain can concoct an excuse not to. He stretches his hands overhead, back arching until it pops in a few different places—damn his age for catching up with him. As he stands, the mattress shifts, and Jackie rouses with a low moan of displeasure from her sleep-loose lips. “Again?”

On his way over to the closet, Gil looks back at the sweet image she makes, half-asleep with her hair splayed across her pillow. The hollow of one collarbone peeks over the stretched-out neckline of one of his old police academy tees, and he’s tempted to crawl back under the sheets with her and suck bruises all along her beautiful body. But duty calls, he thinks, tugging on the first pair of slacks his uncoordinated hands pull from the closet and sighing as he stumbles back to the bed. “Go back to sleep. If we’re lucky, I’ll be home before you’re up.”

She hums again when he leans in for a kiss, huffing a laugh as he nibbles at her lower lip. “Go, before you change your mind. Love you,” she murmurs into his mouth then rolls out of reach. It takes every ounce of willpower Gil possesses to drag himself away. He snatches out a turtleneck and a jacket and is halfway out the door before he’s bothered to pull either on. The early November air nips at his exposed fingers and cheeks, staining both red before he makes it all of ten feet down the driveway to the relative warmth of the Le Mans. When the engine roars to life, he throws the car into reverse and, shivering, takes off down the road.

The crime scene is littered with first responders and, of course, journalists. Tabloid vultures, the lot of them, all poised to snap a photo of the fourth mangled hooker in as many weeks for the perfect front-page spread. He pulls up between a couple news vans and tries to ignore the cacophony of questions lobbed his direction the second his feet hit the pavement. He grinds his teeth hard enough to hear them squeak, barely biting back the scathing replies buzzing just behind his lips. When he ducks beneath the caution tape, JT falls into step beside him, offering a much-needed cup of bitter black coffee. “Girl was strangled probably, but we’re still waiting for Edrisa to call it.”

Through a group of forensic technicians across the street, Gil spots a flash of pale skin. Propped against an ad for Trojan condoms, of all things, their victim lies naked in a puddle of her own blood. The killer had, as with every other victim, shaved her head to the scalp, and a ring of bruising wraps uniformly around her throat. Her lower abdomen is shredded by a series of meticulous cuts, the skin so soaked through that it peels away from the muscle and soft tissue beneath it. Despite the way it turns his stomach, he forces himself to follow the trail of wounds along her hips, thighs, and genitals. Positioned with her arms across her breasts, Gil may have thought the killer intended to preserve her modesty if her legs weren't splayed as wide as they can go, inviting God and everyone to see exactly what had been done to her.

“Have we ID’d the victim?” asks a gruff voice from behind him.

In his periphery, JT stands a little straighter. “She was found like this, sir, no personal items and no identification.”

With a grunt, Lt. Owen Shannon steps into view and crouches beside the body, pointing to her neck. “I’m guessing this was the cause of death?”

“You guess correctly,” a chipper voice replies a second before Edrisa pops up beside him. “Unfortunately for her, all the, uh,” she waves a hand toward their victim’s stomach, “carving was done prior to the strangulation. So far, we haven’t found any foreign DNA on the body, but I’ll need to take a sample of the discharge to be sure. Don’t hold your breath, though.”

Gil hardly hears her, too busy examining every inch of the surrounding scene for something, _anything_ that could lead them to their killer, but like every time before, there’s nothing to find. Only the tortured corpse of another prostitute he’d failed to save and the promise of more bodies to follow. His fingers itch to pull off his jacket and return some modicum of dignity to the poor woman, but Shannon would kill him for tainting the evidence; if he didn’t, Edrisa certainly would. Instead, he glances at JT and asks, “Any witnesses?”

JT shrugs his lips and grunts, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Nah, but we got the kid who found her, if you want to talk to him. He’s… something.”

Gil follows the line of his thumb to the street corner where a couple unis stand with a civilian he can’t quite make out from this angle. With a little nod, he separates from the team, subtly craning his neck to try and catch sight of their only lead.

And what a sight it is.

The first thing he notices is how small the kid is, lithe frame accentuated by a well-tailored black button down. From the waist up, he looks like any twenty-something yuppie, all slicked-back hair, manicured nails, and perfectly-groomed five-o-clock shadow. His lower body, however, tells a very different story. A pair of high-waisted booty shorts cling to his hips like a second skin, and fishnet stockings span his mile-long legs to a pair of six-inch, cherry red stiletto heels. His demeanor is breezy, like he’s discussing last night’s game around the water cooler rather than standing thirty feet from a dead body. It’s tempting to write him off as just another young, misguided prostitute—because there is little doubt in his mind how this kid earns his money—but when uncanny blue eyes meet his own, Gil sees so much more.

One of the beat cops waves him over. “Detective Arroyo, this is the guy who called 9-1-1. He doesn’t talk, though, so I dunno how much help he’s gonna be.”

Gil darts his eyes over to the man in acknowledgement before they’re drawn magnetically back. “Would you be willing to come down to the station with me and answer a few questions?”

The kid narrows his eyes as one corner of his lips pulls up into a smirk, and there’s a question in the eyebrow climbing his forehead. He shrugs and nods, and together they make their way back to the Le Mans in silence. Gil curses under his breath when he sees the growing horde of reporters blocking their path, the flash of their cameras a dizzying flurry. Before giving it much thought, he steps in front of the younger man, shielding him from view. Wide, blue eyes blink owlishly only a couple inches from his face, and his brain helpfully supplies him with the image of how short he must be without those ridiculous heels. With a sigh, he slips his jacket off his shoulders and pulls it around the kid’s head.

“Just keep your head down and stick close to me, okay?” He doesn’t wait for a response before grabbing a delicate wrist and marching toward the safety the Le Mans offers. The crowd parts enough to allow them through but barely, hands and knees and microphones jostling him from either side until finally, blessedly, he’s able to pull open the passenger side door and shove the kid inside. He circles the grill and climbs in himself only moments later. When he glances over to check on his guest, he’s greeted by a toothy grin and the sight of his jacket dwarfing slim shoulders, a few strands of hair fallen onto the kid's forehead, making him look even younger. He reaches for the gear shift and spots a pale hand trembling on the center console. He nearly smacks himself; it’s frigid outside, of course the poor, half-naked kid would be shivering.

After pulling them out onto the road and away from the crime scene, he cranks the heater as high as it will go. “Shouldn’t take her too long to warm up.”

Confusion twists the kid’s face a second before he looks down at his hand like he’d forgotten it was there, and he’s quick to flex his fingers then curl them into a tight fist to still them. An easy smile overtakes his face—it doesn’t, Gil notes, come close to reaching his eyes—and he brings his free hand up, palm cupped, the tips of his extended fingers tapping his chin then swiping out away from his face. It’s been years since he'd learned rudimentary sign language, but he recognizes the thank you for what it is. The rest of the drive passes in silence, his passenger frenetically drumming his stocking-clad thigh with his right hand while the left remains clenched. When Gil pulls up in front of the station, the kid shoots up and out of the car, bowstring-tense while simultaneously brimming with energy as they make their way to an open interrogation room.

Gil gestures for him to enter and have a seat, taking a moment to grab a notepad and pen before following him in. A flash of appreciation warms the kid’s expression before a more familiar coy look slots back into place.

_So, how can I help you, Detective?_

“Please, call me Gil,” he corrects. “What should I call you?”

Despite the flirtatious smirk, Gil reads real discomfort in his stiff posture and tight lips. _You can call me whatever you like._

He makes a mental note of the evasion then changes tactics. “What were you doing on the Upper East Side at this time of night?”

The kid hesitates, eyes darting back and forth across the paper before he writes: _Just out for a stroll, enjoying the nightlife, but that’s not what you really want to ask me, is it?_

Smartass, Gil thinks. “I’d appreciate if you let me ask the questions. Forgive me if this is insensitive, but why won’t you speak?”

The kid’s answering grin is brilliant. Instead of writing a reply, he reaches up and undoes the top button of his shirt, loosening the thick, leather collar—how the hell had he missed that?—from around his neck, pulling both it and the shirt out of the way. There, slashed into his delicate throat lies a narrow, ropey scar about as long as his forefinger. It’s obviously an old injury, the tissue long-since faded to white, but the longer he studies it, the more uneasy he feels. The edges of the wound are neat, smooth like someone had dragged a freshly sharpened blade across the skin, and then he wonders if that isn’t exactly what happened.

Brows furrowing, he holds back the series of questions the scar raises. “I see. I’m sorry.” A dismissive wave is all he gets. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary tonight, anything you think could help with this investigation?”

The grin stretches further, dangerously close to shit-eating territory. _Besides the dead body, you mean?_

Gil responds with a withering gaze.

 _Sorry,_ the kid writes, though the wicked amusement in his eyes belies his apology. _I didn’t see the killer, if that’s what you’re asking. I left everything exactly as I found it._

The careful wording sets off alarm bells in Gil’s head. He goes over the sentences in his head a few more times, considers what they say and everything they don’t. “You found something, then?” he asks then hastens to add, “And yeah, I mean besides the dead body.”

A quick scribble then, when the notepad is turned toward him, only one word stares back: _Depends._

“Depends on what?” Gil asks, frowning.

_Am I a suspect?_

The question sets off a few more warning bells. Gil leans back, arms crossing over his chest. “This is a murder investigation, kid, not a game. Tell me what you found, and we’ll see where we end up.”

A quiet sigh, and the pen falls back to the page; Gil pretends not to notice the way the notepad shakes in the kid’s hands. Intermittent periods of writing are broken by outbursts where he scratches everything out and starts over again. Just as Gil’s about to comment, the kid shoots him a glance so piercing, it’s a wonder it doesn’t draw blood. Whatever he finds seems to convince him, though, and he finally finishes and passes the notepad across the desk.

The top half of the page is blacked out.

 _I meant it when I said I didn’t see her killer, but I didn’t have to. Did you see her stomach? Every cut was the same length, the same depth. It wasn’t done out of anger or malice. Someone took their time doing this to her, the same way he did with his other victims. To their killer, this isn’t murder, it’s_ _art_ _. This is sadism at its finest, an exercise in pain. You’re looking for a predatory psychopath, meticulous and an expert at hiding in plain sight. He’ll come across as innocuous, friendly even, and with the precision of the wounds, it’s likely he comes from a medical background. But your team is still looking at the victims’ johns, aren't they? You shouldn’t because that’s exactly what he wants._

It takes Gil longer to come up with a response than he’d like to admit. “How the _hell_ do you know all that?”

The kid reaches across to pull the notepad back to him with his left hand, the tremor worsening the longer they talk. When he turns it around again, his entire face is pinched, pleading. _I promise I had nothing to do with these murders._

Gil hangs his head, rolling his shoulders back while he buys himself a minute to think. The kid’s conclusions about their suspect are surprisingly plausible, and if he’s being honest with himself, he can’t imagine the skinny, chummy prostitute across the desk from him killing anyone. That said, he also can’t reconcile that level of detail with someone who isn’t involved in some way or another. Something doesn’t add up.

“Look, this is—I know there’s something you’re hiding from me, and the sooner you tell me, the sooner I can take you off my suspect list. So, how about it?” Gil raises both eyebrows for emphasis.

The kid flounders at that and shakes his head. _I can’t._

With a frustrated growl, Gil shoves away from the table, chair legs clattering loudly against the concrete. He turns away, hand scrubbing over his mouth, and an intense desire to throttle the kid rears its ugly head. “Is there anything you can tell me? You’ve got to give me something here, kid.”

The pen depresses the younger man’s lip as he chews it and Gil’s words over. Then, he writes: _I can tell you her name was Sydney. And before you ask, I don't know if that was her real name or not._

Surprised and more than a little excited, Gil asks, “Anything else? Did you know any of the other victims?”

He gets a nod. _Cyndi, Faith, and James. I can’t verify their names, either._

His heart picks up, the thrill of having an actual lead, no matter how flimsy, sending adrenaline coursing through him. “How did you know them?”

With an unimpressed look, the kid scrunches his nose. _Do you really need to ask?_

And there’s my confirmation he’s a prostitute, he thinks, nodding to himself. “I suppose not. What else can you tell me about them? Any regular hangouts? ‘Clients?'” His lip curls around the last word.

 _I’m sorry._ At least the kid has the decency to look apologetic this time.

“Right,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Of course not. You have anything else you want to tell me?”

_Want to, yes, but can’t._

Gil’s conducted enough interrogations to know when the well’s run dry, much as he hates to admit it. “You have a cellphone, kid?” he asks. He reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws his card when he receives a nod, passing it over between two fingers. “Text me if you think of anything else.”

Genuine mirth sparkles in the kid’s eyes. He grabs the card and holds it up to his mouth, kissing it softly before slipping under his waistband. Gil shakes his head, choking on the chuckle in his throat, and walks over to the door. The click-clack of the kid’s heels follows him into the hall and back to the entrance door, where he turns around.

“Take care of yourself—” Gil pauses, opening and closing his mouth a few times before scoffing. “Guess I’m going to have to get creative with names in my report. How’s ‘Smartass’ work for you?”

The kid’s jaw drops, eyebrows creeping up his forehead, then his lips curl into a disbelieving smile. Gil spares half a second to feel concerned when blue eyes squeeze closed and shoulders start quivering before he realizes what he’s seeing is laughter.

When he gets his giggles in check, the kid carefully mouths: _I’ve been called worse._

I have no doubt about that, Gil thinks with a stab of sadness. “Did you need a ride anywhere?”

Unsurprisingly, he receives a shake of the head and another dismissive wave, but what does surprise him is the hand that darts out and snags his wrist just as he turns back toward the bullpen. Holding Gil’s eyes, the kid pats at his own chest with his free hand and, while mouthing the letters, makes a series of simple gestures with the other that Gil recognizes as the ASL alphabet after the third repetition.

_B - R - I - G - H - T_

“Bright,” he says, and the pleased expression is reassurance enough that he read that right. “Your name is Bright?”

A playful gleam flashes through the kid’s eyes as he holds his hands up, index and middle fingers raised, but rather than twitch them like air quotes, he shakes his hands back and forth. Sort of, huh?

For the first time all night, Gil doesn’t fight the urge to smile. “In that case, take care of yourself, sort-of-Bright.”

His words trigger another fit of silent giggles, and “Bright” brings his fingertips to his lips then swipes his palm down over the back of his other hand. He signs the letter 'G' before holding his thumb to his forehead with a closed fist, then spreading his fingers and making an arc down to his chest. Gil’s pretty sure about the letter, but he can’t even begin to decipher the rest. Before he can think on it long, the kid exits to the parking lot, and—though Gil would deny it to the day he died—he can’t pull his eyes away from the bottom of one curvaceous cheek slipping out from under the inseam of his shorts.

Oh, Jackie’s going to love this, he thinks, shaking his head as he finally tears himself away and heads for his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:** <  
>  **\- graphic depiction of injury**
> 
> Please, consider leaving a comment; I'll be reading (and dying over) all of them!
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be updating the tags as the story updates, so be sure to give them a peek!
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> Once again, beta'd by the absolutely amazing [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa).

“Okay, okay,” Gil groans, face half-hidden in the palm of his hand while, standing beside him at the breakfast bar, Jackie cackles like a madwoman. “I think you’ve had your fun.”

“Well, can you blame me?” she asks between fits of giggles. “It’s not every day your husband gets hit on by a sex worker. And from your,” she arches an eyebrow, “detailed description, he sounds like a cutie. Please tell me you got his number.”

Through a gap between his fingers, he glares at her, though it lacks impact since they both know there’s no real heat in it. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jackie, I forgot to get the hooker’s phone number while I was _questioning him about a murder.”_

Unfazed, she waves the idea away. “No reason you couldn’t do both.” A pregnant pause follows her statement, and sobriety gradually overtakes her good humor. “Was he able to help you?”

The air in his lungs hisses out through clenched teeth, and he drags his palm down his face. “Not much. He gave us all the victims’ names, but considering their—” he fumbles for a delicate way to refer to a decidedly indelicate profession, _“social nightlife,_ it’s likely none of them are real. I know sure as shit ‘Bright’ isn’t.”

“It’s more than your team had last week,” she reminds him, placing a hand on his forearm. “Progress, not perfection, remember?”

“Sure, and if we keep going at this rate, who knows how many more bodies he’ll have time to butcher and line up on the side of the road like yesterday’s trash,” Gil bites out, pressing both his hands flat on the counter and letting his head hang down between them. “I’m sorry, I know you’re right, but…”

“But you can’t stop thinking about them,” Jackie finishes for him with a sigh, taking one of his hands between both of her own. “You care about these people. It’s what makes you such a good detective. I only wish it didn’t upset you like this.”

He nods, for lack of a better response, and they sink into silence. Jackie continues to brush her thumbs across his palm. Staring down at where her fingers curve around his hand, his mind helpfully supplies the image of another set of fingers unexpectedly catching his wrist. Logically, he knows there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed, things he should never bring home with him, but the thought that’s been circling his head all morning won’t be suppressed. “He knew their names, Jackie. This kid worked with the victims, and he’s afraid.”

“Did he tell you that?” she asks, eyebrows knitting together.

Before she’s even finished the question, he’s already shaking his head. “No, but he didn’t have to. He tried to hide it, but his hand kept shaking, literally shaking, while we were talking. He was everything you’d expect from a prostitute, coy and flirtatious, but he was _terrified,_ Jackie.”

A sad smile tugs the corners of her mouth. “And that’s why you’re so fixated on him, isn’t it? You always have had a bit of a hero complex, love.”

Denials spring to his lips but, deep down, he knows she’s exactly right, and that just makes the pill so much harder to swallow. “I can’t stop wondering if it’ll be next time, or the time after that, when I walk onto a crime scene and see that kid’s face staring up at me. It was different when none of them had names, but if Bright ends up dead—”

“Enough.” Jackie’s firm command stops him short, and the fire burning through her eyes stays his tongue. “That boy is going to be just fine, and you know how I know that? Because he’s working with Detective Gil Arroyo of the NYPD, and my husband would never let him down. Never. So, stop wasting time, get your head in the game, and do what you do best: solve this case and put the son of a bitch responsible where he belongs. Do you hear me?”

Her admonishment forces a sharp bark of a laugh from his throat, and looking down into her fierce, determined face, a rush of affection sweeps through him. Following closely on its heels, a surge of heat, and damn if he’s not eager for the excuse to change the subject. Skin tingling, he tugs her close, one hand cupping the small of her back while the other slides up the side of her neck. “Oh, what I do best, huh? I can think of a few things I do better.”

Watching her pinpoint pupils swell until only a sliver of chocolate brown surrounds them shoots pure lust through Gil’s veins. Voice husky, she murmurs, “Is that so?”

He hums deep in his chest, using his hand on her neck to brush her hair back, bending down to mouth along the exposed skin. The pulse beneath his lips quickens, and he smirks. “How about a demonstration?”

Before she has a chance to respond, he drops both his hands to the back of her thighs and hefts her feet clean off the floor. Like clockwork, she hooks her legs on his hips and grabs fistfuls of his hair, closing the last few inches between them to smash her lips into his. He easily navigates the living room and begins the climb to their bedroom, shuffling his palms up to knead at her ass through her yoga pants. She moans into their kiss, and he jumps at the opportunity to plunge his tongue between her parted lips, licking along the roof of her mouth and relishing the taste of her. Blindly, he kicks open the final door barring his way, flicks the light switch, and tosses her onto the bed.

“Wait,” Jackie rasps when he reaches up to loosen his tie, pushing up onto her elbows, one bra strap peeking out from under her shirt. With her curls mussed around her face, eyes near-black in the dim light, she looks ethereal, perfect in a way no human should be. “Won’t you give me a show first, Daddy?”

Her words shoot straight to Gil’s cock, already thickening against the fly of his slacks. He has to take a few steady breaths before he trusts himself to speak. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

Under her watchful gaze, he weaves his index finger through the knot of his tie, pulling it away from his neck teasingly slow before releasing it and moving to pop the buttons of his shirt, revealing bare skin inch-by-inch. Once his shirt hangs open, he reaches one hand down to undo his slacks while the other drags across the smattering of hair on his chest toward one of his nipples. Jackie’s breathing picks up with every movement, her breasts heaving beneath her blouse when he pinches and tugs at the now-pebbled brown nub. A wet spot appears and spreads along the front of her pants, and the need to have his mouth on her overwhelms all others.

His hands shoot out and lock onto her ankles, yanking her right up to the edge of the mattress. “I think it’s time you return the favor, don’t you, baby?”

Her hips arch off the bed in answer, giving Gil room to slip her pants—and the black lace thong under them—along her legs until they pool on the floor, forgotten. The tips of her toes trail up his thigh, then she lays the bottom of her foot flat against his stomach, heavy-lidded eyes smoldering up at him, half-begging and half-demanding he finish what he’s started. Gladly, he thinks as he sinks to his knees and guides her legs over his shoulders. He starts out slow, lips and tongue tracing patterns into her inner thighs while his fingers ghost across her hips. Finally, when each moan chokes off in a high-pitched whine, he buries his nose in the crease where her thigh meets her groin and inhales the glorious scent of her arousal. Then, he shifts to the right and gives her a flat-tongued lollipop lick. The feeling of Jackie’s legs tensing against either side of his head is heaven, the taste of her slick on his lips, ambrosia. Gently, he brings his hands around to part her folds and sharpens his tongue, rubbing tight circles around the hard nub of her clit. She sucks a shallow breath, releasing all the air in her lungs on an unfettered cry, hands detaching from the comforter and finding purchase in his hair.

“Oh, Daddy, please,” she whines, trying and failing to hold herself still as he presses two fingers into her, curling them as he draws them back before pushing forward again. It doesn’t take long for her to start grinding up into his face, using the hand in his hair and the thrust of her hips to position him right where she wants him. He continues with single-minded focus, eventually closing his lips around her, alternating between sucking and licking and thrusting his fingers until her entire body starts to twitch and she’s practically sobbing. Eventually, she draws a breath that she holds onto, her body pulling taut for a second before the tension shatters, and she dissolves into tremors in the throes of her release.

He gives her gentle kitten licks throughout until even that is too much, and Jackie tugs him away with groan. The air cools the wetness spread across his cheeks, soaking his goatee, and he waits until she looks down her body at him to swipe his finger through the mess and suck the digit into his mouth with pleased hum. She chuckles breathlessly, releasing her grip in his hair to rub her thumb over one sticky cheek.

Just as Gil moves to climb onto the bed with her, a sound echoes up the stairs—one he hates even more now than when it had woken him up at 3 AM. He grunts and is about to suggest that they shut the door and pretend they never heard a thing when Jackie sits up.

“Well,” she smirking at his expression, “you’d better get that. You know you’ll hate yourself later if you miss it. And don’t worry,” she leans over and whispers right into his ear, “we’ll pick up where we left off when you get home.”

Pressing his nose into her hair, he takes a few calming breaths and convinces himself that she has a good point, though the hard length still trapped in his pants would disagree. He pushes himself off the floor, giving her a peck on the cheek before heading for the door. Just before stepping into the hall, he promises, “You’re damn right we will.”

On the counter, his phone screen goes dim for all of a second before lighting up again. Once he's picked it up and checked the caller ID, the urge to play hooky returns tenfold; leave it to Shannon to ruin the mood.

“Arroyo,” he answers.

“Get your ass back to the station. Edrisa’s got the autopsy report, and you and I need to have a little chat,” the Lieutenant barks.

“Yes—” The line clicks, and a dial tone interrupts his response. “... sir.”

It takes a good fifteen minutes to straighten out his clothes and clean off his face, though nothing can wash away the lingering stink of dissatisfaction. He spares one final glance at the mirror by the door before heading out.

The sun has breached the horizon, streaming beams of red and orange through the Manhattan skyline, bathing the world in shades of fire. Despite this, a chill hangs persistently in the air, hastening Gil's steps to the Le Mans. During the commute, he has plenty of time to wonder what Shannon might have to say, most likely about Bright, and he suspects he’ll hate every word. A dozen scenarios have played out in his head by the time he pulls up behind the precinct, ranging from a quick check-in to an all-out, profanity-and-fist-slinging war in Shannon’s office; needless to say, he’s primed for an adrenaline rush as he steps into the building and heads for the morgue.

The Lieutenant and JT have already arrived, both standing sullen with their arms crossed beside where the victim's laid out on the embalming table. Her skin is white as the sheet covering her, and as disconcerting as it is to see the aftermath of an autopsy, Gil can’t help but see it as an improvement. Just as the door clicks closed behind him, Edrisa scuttles over.

“Hi, hello,” she titters, lips drawing into a grin that strains her cheeks and screams overcompensation. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” An awkward moment hangs between them until she says, “Get it? Because we all just saw each other at the—”

“Doctor,” Shannon cuts her off, shutting her down with a stony look.

Edrisa deflates, eyes dropping to the corpse and remaining there; the beginnings of protective fury spark to life in Gil's gut. She plasters on an imitation smile that pales in comparison to the real thing. “Right, sorry. Well, she was strangled, like we figured, but the only things I found in her vaginal canal were traces of cyclopentasiloxane and dimethicone—common ingredients in silicone-based lubricants—and latex. So, we know she had sex within an hour or two of her murder. That said, I found no signs of trauma, so it’s unclear if the killer assaulted her or if it was all in a day’s work, so to speak. And finally, the tox screen revealed the same blend of neuromuscular paralytics—succinylcholine, pancuronium bromide, and atracurium besylate—in her blood as the other victims, which explains the lack of defensive wounds.”

Even though the information is nothing new, the reminder that the victims have all been alive and conscious when the killer sliced into them, terrified and trapped in their own bodies, turns his stomach. An image flashes behind his closed eyelids of blue eyes wide with fear, with pain; he slaps a hand over his mouth and takes a few deep breaths to keep his breakfast down. “Did you find anything new?”

Edrisa frowns, shrinking into herself a bit as she shakes her head. “Sorry, Detective.”

Before he can respond, Shannon says, “That’s it, then. Tarmel, head back to the scene and canvass the area. Arroyo, you come with me.”

JT nods and leaves, shooting Gil a questioning look on his way out the door. Shannon, on the other hand, doesn’t so much as acknowledge him before stomping over to the door and out into the hall. Well, we’re off to a great start, he thinks sarcastically as he follows a few steps behind, fighting tooth and nail to keep his posture relaxed. When they make it to the Lieutenant’s office, the man takes the seat behind the desk and points to the chair opposite without a word. As much as it pains him, Gil does as directed, back ramrod straight against the plastic backrest.

“So,” Shannon begins, eyes finally landing on Gil’s face, expression flat and unreadable. “This Bright character. What did he have to say?”

Gil can feel his eyebrows twitch downward, and he shoots a glance down at the desk between them where his compiled report sits, untouched. “It’s all in my report—”

“I want to hear it from you, Detective.”

His tone leaves no room for argument. “He gave me all the victims’ first names, all of which I listed in my report,” Gil adds with a hint of venom in his voice, “but the kid wasn’t sure if they were fake or not.”

Shannon hums in response, pursing his lips. “And did he have anything to say about our killer?”

A cold tongue of dread licks along Gil’s spine; he can tell from a mile away where this line of questioning is headed. “Sir, nothing during our conversation implicated Bright in—”

“What,” Shannon’s gravelly voice drowns him out, carefully emphasizing each syllable, “did he say about our killer?”

Gil’s jaw snaps closed, teeth clacking. The next words from his mouth are critical, so he takes a deep breath and chooses them carefully. “Bright offered an interesting perspective on the killer’s motivations and suggested we might be making a mistake by focusing on the victims' clients.”

“And how, exactly, do you suppose he gained such insight into the killer’s motivations?”

His hesitation is real this time, the very same question having made several circuits through his own head; some part of him is positive that Bright’s no murderer, though, and his instincts haven’t failed him yet. “I'm not sure, but I do think it warrant further investigation.”

“I see. So, of course, you got his contact information. Maybe an address where we could follow up? Or did you post an officer on him in case we need him for further questioning?”

Gil gnaws at the inside of his lip hard enough to taste blood. On paper, the Lieutenant’s right to reprimand him, but in reality, he’s questioned enough vagrants to know how they feel about perceived invasions of privacy. He knows if he’d pressed any harder, he wouldn't have had even that ridiculous alias to put in his report. “No, sir, but I know his type. I’ve run plenty of confidential informants. If we don’t let him come to us, we’ll get absolutely nothing from him. I made a call.”

“Damn it, Arroyo,” Shannon roars, slamming his fist into the desk, “you did _not_ have the authority to make that call! That whore was our only lead, and now, we have to wait and hope to God he decides to contact you.” When Gil opens his mouth, he snaps, “I don’t want to hear it. If Bright contacts you, you contact me _._ Got it?”

Nostrils flaring, Gil nods once. “Yes, sir. Is that all you needed?”

With a sneer, Shannon waves him away, and he takes off before his mouth can get him into even more trouble. Beelining for the exit, he marches through the bullpen, past half a dozen unis and JT, who looks even more confused than he had earlier, but he ignores them all in favor of putting as much space between himself and the Lieutenant as physically possible. On the drive home, his hand grips the steering wheel hard, drawing pitiful squeals from the leather every time he adjusts his hold. By the time he pulls into the driveway, he has, at least, gotten his breathing under control, if only just.

Jackie notices something’s off the second he opens the door, and she sits up on the couch, where she’d been curled up reading, pulling her feet out from underneath her. “Gil? What’s wrong?”

He throws one hand out in her direction, the other scrubbing over his mouth and tugging at his facial hair, agitation creeping through his veins like a colony fire ants. Silently, he sends up a prayer that, for once, she just let sleeping dogs lie.

Unfortunately for him, Jackie’s never been that kind of woman. “Was it Shannon?” she asks, and something on his face must give him away. “What did he do this time?”

“Jackie—”

“Don’t you _dare_ ‘Jackie’ me, Gil Arroyo. If you really don’t want to talk about this, I’ll drop it, but we both know you won’t feel better until you do,” she says, voice firm, but concern is written plainly into the tension around her mouth and the line between her brows. When he doesn’t respond, she pushes herself to her feet, arms held wide in invitation.

That’s all it takes for his anger to crumble like a house of cards, and he drops his arms and moves in close. Her soft hands sweep across his cheeks, up his neck and into his hair, then down along his back in careful strokes. He feels no shame in allowing her to guide his head forward onto her shoulder, basking in the calm she radiates.

“He thinks Bright’s responsible. Or, at the very least, involved.”

Jackie scoffs into his ear. “Of course he does, that close-minded prick. That’s nothing new, though. Why’s he got you so out of sorts today?”

With a sigh, he pulls back and looks right into her eyes. “If he thinks the kid’s involved somehow, Shannon will just as soon arrest him as anything else. And now, I'm supposed to tell him if Bright reaches out, meaning I have to choose between landing a kid in holding for a crime I know he didn’t commit or disobeying a direct order.”

To his surprise, Jackie laughs out loud. “That’s not even a choice, love. Not for you, and we both know that.”

You know me too well, comes the warm thought. Leaning in with her face cupped between his palms, he smiles fondly into a kiss. And if he leaves his phone in plain view on the coffee table for the rest of the evening, neither of them comments on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- explicit cunnilingus**   
>  **\- mild derogatory language (specifically with regards to Malcolm's profession)**
> 
> So sorry for the lack of Malcolm here, guys, but I promise this fic isn't called "B - R - I - G - H - T" for nothing. 😘👌🏻 Please consider leaving a comment, if you enjoyed this chapter; I thrive on your feedback!
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guy, I am having WAY too much fun with this story, and I really hope you are, too!
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> Beta'd by the indisputable badass, [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa).

It’s been four days—103 hours and 42 minutes, actually, not that Gil’s counting—since Bright walked out of the station with his business card tucked into those high-waisted shorts, and Gil still hasn’t heard a peep. It’s second nature to check his phone every fifteen minutes now for texts that are never there. He can’t say if he’s more irritated by the radio silence or worried, but every day has been a dizzying seesaw between the two from the second he opens his eyes to the second sleep overtakes him.

Jackie has kept him sane, giving him space when anger wins out and drives him to pace furious trenches into the hardwood, and when fear keeps him awake, she soothes his frayed nerves in the dark of night. Her resolve continues to astound him as she reminds him time and again to give the kid time, that trust doesn’t come easy for the less fortunate of the world. She has no doubt that he’ll reach out, and Gil would kill to borrow a little of her surety, if only to ease his own anxiety for an hour or two.

At the fifteen minute mark, he snatches up his phone and clicks on the screen, gritting his teeth at the lack of notifications and tossing it away harder than strictly necessary. He rubs his hand over his mouth for about the hundredth time that morning, eyes halfheartedly tracking over the case file spread across his desk. Clearing his throat, he stacks the discombobulated photos and flicks through them.

According to Edrisa, all of their victims had the same drugs in their system at time of death, rendering them immobile but painfully lucid for their own murder. The first victim—Cyndi, if Bright was to be believed—was found on the 72nd Street subway platform by some early morning commuters, naked and strangled with a mesh pattern of lacerations all along her back, the deepest of which carved divots around each knob of her spine. The second, Faith, was dumped by the dumpsters outside the Candle Café, also naked and eviscerated. With the blood and bile residue on her hands, Edrisa speculated that the killer had used her limp hands to hold her intestines out of the way while he’d fished around inside of her. James, a petite boy like—don’t go there, he cuts the thought off—turned up in the flowerbed in front of the Urbana Properties apartment complex, every inch of skin flayed off of his face; Edrisa—after admiring the precision required to complete the job—suggested, just as Bright had, that the cleanliness of the cuts may indicate a medical background.

Browsing each of the autopsy reports, Gil can’t quite silence the niggling voice in the back of his mind that sounds remarkably like Bright’s. An exercise in pain, huh, he thinks, and based on the macabre photos in his hand, the kid’s words ring eerily true. It doesn’t matter, though; Shannon has, to no one’s surprise, refused to entertain Bright’s theories, arguing that speculation from a “common street whore” is more worthless than the kid, himself. He still has the team searching for the victims’ johns, all but forbidding them from deviating from that avenue of investigation until they’ve completely exhausted it.

After another minute or so, he reaches for his phone again, but just as his fingers close around it, JT steps up beside him.

“Hey, man, I think I might’ve found something,” he says, a rare smile breaching his usual stoicism, so Gil recognizes genuine excitement. “When I canvassed, one chick said she remembered seeing the victim climbing out of a silver Lexus around 11 PM. So, I pulled traffic cam footage and got a plate. The vehicle belongs to one Jacob Henderson, who lives in—wait for it—the Urbana Properties building.”

That gets his attention. “The apartments where the third victim was found?”

“The very same. I was gonna head over there now, if you wanna come?”

Gil darts a glance down at his dark phone screen then back up at JT. Better than sitting here driving myself crazy, he thinks. Pulling on his jacket, he nods. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Turns out, their suspect lives in a suite on the fourteenth floor of the building, granting him what must be an exquisite view into Central Park; Gil imagines the rent here is at least double what he and JT make in a year, combined. The doorman, an older man in a red double-breasted suit jacket with a matching uniform cap, greets them with a pleasant if confused smile and pulls one of the glass double doors open so they can both enter.

The foyer floor is blanketed in black subway tiles broken only by a rug roughly the size of Gil’s living room off to the right. A set of leather chaise lounges and a matching modular couch positioned on it make up a cozy sitting area beside a slim electric fireplace spanning the length of the wall. Along the entire left side of the room, a series of exotic plants Gil doesn’t even want to try to name are backlit by pale white bulbs set into the front of their planter box. Opposite the entrance, a pair of elevators sit split by a grayscale stone veneer with a glass waterfall mounted to it, the murmur of running water drifting all the way over to them. As they take off across the room, they pass beneath a chandelier comprised of frosted glass tubes hanging from cords of varying lengths that casts a soft glow over the space, highlighting the beauty of its opulence, but Gil can’t help but find it all cold in the way modern design often is.

Just as they reach the elevators, a young couple emerges from one, and he and JT dodge them and slip in before the doors close. When the indicator clicks over to the fourteenth floor, they march straight up to Henderson’s door.

“NYPD, open up,” JT calls as he bangs on the door. Gil settles a hand on his hip in a deceptively casual gesture that puts his gun within easy reach. There’s no answer. His partner tries a few more times with similar results, and just as their hopes and mood sink to somewhere in the vicinity of the boiler room, Mr. Henderson’s neighbor across the hall steps out. The poor woman startles, thin frame jerking back into her door the moment she spots them.

“H-hello. Is… is Jake in some kind of trouble?” she asks in a friendly voice, but Gil catches her glance down at his gun and the sheen of sweat beading on her upper lip.

He offers her an easy smile and lifts the hem of his sweater to show her his badge. “Not at all, ma’am. I’m Detective Gil Arroyo, and this is my partner, Detective Tarmel. We just needed to ask Jake a few questions. Do you know if he’s home?”

Blinking rapidly, she shakes her head. “Um, I’m really not sure, but he didn’t leave for work this morning. I thought maybe he was sick, since he’s been acting so weird the last couple days.”

Gil shares a look with JT and asks, “What do you mean, ‘weird’?”

She cards a hand through the bleach-blond curls coiled tightly to her head. “He’s just been… I don’t know, weird. Twitchy, always looking over his shoulder like he’s paranoid or something.”

“Has he said anything to you about that?” He can't help the sharpness in his tone; there’s blood in the water, and he’s on the hunt.

Her gaze drops to the floor, shoulders curving up toward her ears. “N-no, not really. He and I… we don’t talk much. He’s asked me to watch his cat while he’s out of town a few times, but mostly I think he forgets I even exist,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh. The fist pressed over her heart and the far-off look in her eyes tells him everything he needs to know about her relationship to their suspect.

A thought strikes him. “Do you happen to have a key to his apartment, Miss…?”

“Trish, uh, Trish Hudson, and yes, I have a key. Why do you…?” she starts, then her eyes widen. “Oh, I can’t just let you into his apartment, Detective.”

“And we wouldn’t ask you to do that, Miss Hudson,” JT jumps in smoothly, raising both hands in a placating gesture. “Thing is, we’re investigating some pretty nasty stuff, and we haven’t been able to get a hold of him. We just want to make sure he’s all right. Think you could pop in just to check? We’d wait out here in the hall, of course.”

Worry flashes across her face, and some kind of inner war wages behind her eyes before she gives one small nod, turns, and re-enters her own apartment. In her absence, Gil whispers, “Good thinking,” earning a wink from his partner.

When Trish reemerges with a blue rabbit foot clutched in her hand, they school their expressions. Shuffling awkwardly, she crosses the hall and, while unlocking Henderson’s apartment, turns to Gil. “Please just… stay out here.”

He nods, but she spins back too fast and slips into the apartment without waiting for a response. Muffled, he can barely hear her calling out, but it doesn’t take long for even that to fade.

Approximately two minutes after she enters the suite, the screaming starts.

Drawing his gun, Gil throws open the door without hesitation. The curtains are drawn, throwing pale shadows across the living room and kitchen. On the surface, he wouldn’t guess anything was wrong; the furniture is meticulously arranged, a stack of magazines squared neatly in the center of the coffee table beside a half-drunk cup of coffee. A cat tree sits, empty, in the corner of the room, the aforementioned cat nowhere to be seen. Not a thing out of place, save the woman shrieking in the next room.

“Trish?” he shouts as he signals JT to follow him right, where the only source of light shines through an ajar door. He readjusts his hold on his Glock, flicking off the safety and sliding his index finger through the trigger guard. With his free hand, he counts down from three then bursts into the room, gun raised.

The sight that greets them is a surprise, to say the least.

Splatters of blood speckle the carpet, the ceiling, and everything in between like a goddamn Jackson Pollock painting. For a horrified moment, Gil wonders if it would take more than one body to produce the volume staining the walls, and he darts forward toward the en-suite, where Trish’s terrified screams have subsided into broken sobs. Somehow, there’s even more viscera in the bathroom, no surface left untouched. On the floor beside the vanity, he finds her, face pressed to her knees, arms wrapped around the back of her head. Red stains her hands.

He’s about to reach for her when he sees it: strewn along the bottom of the clawfoot tub, Jacob Henderson’s body—or what’s left of it—lies in pieces, each limb severed from the meat of his torso and arranged side-by-side, arms then legs then torso. It takes him a moment to recognize the fleshy mass skewered on the faucet, which pokes out through his open mouth, as his head. His eyes and, from what Gil can see, his tongue have been cut out.

“JT,” he hollers over his shoulder, unable to pry his eyes away. “Get ESU and a bus over here, ASAP.”

His partner acts without question, disappearing back into the hallway with his phone already in his hands. Gil reengages his safety, holsters his gun, and finally drags his eyes from the carnage, positioning himself to block Trish’s view of it. “Ms. Hudson, are you hurt?”

She doesn’t respond, just continues to whimper unintelligibly into her knees. He sets his hand on one slender forearm and tries again. “Trish?”

It’s a wonder the mirror doesn’t shatter from the pitch of her outburst. “No, no, no…” she cries, flailing violently in an attempt to throw off his hand, smacking her arms into the wall and sink hard enough to bruise.

As gently as he can, he locks his hands around both of her wrists and holds them still. “Ms. Hudson, it’s me, Detective Arroyo. You’re safe.”

When her fearful eyes shoot up, he watches the cloudiness melt away into recognition, and she suddenly freezes. Tears bead along her lower lashes, spilling down her cheeks as she blinks up at him. “H-he… Jake’s dead. He’s dead, someone… he—”

Gil draws a deep breath, hoping it might encourage her to do the same. “Are you hurt?”

Weakly, she shakes her head and just keeps shaking it, eyes clouding over again while gooseflesh breaks out along both her arms. He helps her to her feet, steadying her with one hand on her lower back as she sways in place. Carefully, he guides her out of the bathroom and past the mess of the master suite. In the living room, he shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over her shaking shoulders before nudging her to take a seat on the couch.

“ESU’s about ten minutes out. Called the Lieutenant, too,” JT says as he walks over from where he’d been reclining against the counter in the kitchen. He takes one look at Trish before scooping her feet up and propping them up on the coffee table. When Gil cocks his head, he says, “With shock, you wanna lay ‘em down flat as you can and elevate their feet. Looks a little cold, too. I’ll go see if there’s a linen closet or something.”

Though he’s tempted to ask if his partner learned first aid during his service, Gil refrains. Instead, he feeds Trish’s arms through the sleeves of his jacket, tucking her ice-cold fingers under her thighs afterward. JT comes back a minute later with an old afghan, which he folds up and lays across the shivering woman's lap, then takes a seat on her other side.

It feels like hours before the ESU crew arrives and he can pass Trish off to the professionals. He sends a couple unis to limit foot traffic on the floor, and just as he’s about to head out and let the technicians work, a chipper voice cuts through the chatter.

“Detective Arroyo!” Weaving through the cramped corridor, Edrisa bounds over to him with a grin that’s incongruently eager, given the circumstances. “They told me you found a real doozy.”

“Edrisa,” he greets, unnerved by her exuberance. “That’s one way to put it.”

She nods, going on her tiptoes to try and catch a glimpse through the doorway. “You think this might have been our killer?”

His observations about the crime scene flicker rapid fire through his head, from the disorderly pattern of the blood spatters to the jagged hack job where the man had been dismembered. “No, but it can’t be a coincidence that our first lead turns up dead just after being spotted with our latest victim.”

Something about that catches Edrisa’s attention, and an odd look crosses her face. “Well, not our first lead. That would be the prostitute you questioned, right? You know, the one with the nice legs and the, uh,” she makes a swiping gesture across her throat.

With all the subtlety of a freight train, the need to check his phone crashes into him; it’s a struggle to keep his hands loose at his side. “Right.”

Her mouth flaps open and closed a few times, seemingly unsure how to respond to his short answer, and in the end, she gives him a tight-lipped smile and says, “Well, I better get to work. I’ll let you guys know what I find.”

Gil watches her scurry away and disappear behind the sea of technicians littered throughout the apartment, then he runs a hand through his hair and trudges along the hallway to the elevator. He spots JT jogging up the hall toward him just as the door starts to close and holds it open.

“Damn it,” his partner growls when they start their descent, flexing the fingers of his left hand until they crack. “I really thought we had something here, man.”

Any comfort he could offer would be disingenuous. “I know,” is all he manages, and they walk out of the building in tense silence. JT topples like a marionette cut free from its strings into the passenger seat the second Gil unlocks the Le Mans, defeat seeping from him in waves. Just as he dips his head to follow suit, a familiar face catches his eye in the gathering around the perimeter. He scrubs at his eyes then squints through the flashing red and blue lights, convinced his mind is playing tricks on him because there’s no way—

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Right there, sandwiched between a pair of journalists, Bright smiles radiantly over at him. Once the initial shock dissipates, the kid waves at him with an old flip phone in his hand, and once he’s sure Gil’s seen it, he steps back from the line and escapes into the crowd.

“Wait,” he yells and slaps the roof of the car to signal his partner before rushing off as quickly as his feet will carry him. By the time he shoves his way out onto the street, though, Bright’s gone. He scans left and right, but there’s no sign of him, prompting him to question if he was ever even there at all. Static crackles in his ears, drowning out the sound of the sirens and cameras and frantic babbling of the rubberneckers as he hurries back to his car.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” JT asks, halfway out of the car when he returns and slips into the driver’s seat.

“Did you want me to drop you back at the precinct?” he asks instead of answering, barely waiting for JT to sit back down before speeding off. His partner’s questions gradually dry up in the face of his reticence, and when he pulls up in front of the station, JT climbs out without another word.

Gil’s ears ring during the drive home, _Bright, I saw him, did I see him, he was there, wasn’t he, he’s okay, he's okay, he's okay_ on repeat in his head loud enough that he doesn’t notice the buzz of his phone until he kills the engine. What's on the screen nearly stops his heart.

_(3) New Messages_

He stumbles up the porch steps and into the house without even realizing he's moving, vaguely aware of Jackie’s voice calling to him in the background. With shaky fingers, he unlocks his phone.

## (917) 555-0235

####  **Today** , 12:43 PM

Unknown
    Fancy meeting you here, Detective.
    Told you their johns wouldn’t get your very far.

####  **Today** , 1:13 PM

Unknown
    Be careful with this, Gil. Please.

Jackie’s hands land on his shoulder, snapping him out of his trance. When he drags his wild eyes up to her face, he finds confusion and no small amount of worry. “Gil, what’s going on? Is everything all right?”

Numbly, he raises the hand holding his phone and says the only thing he can: “Bright.”

Surprise registers first, an impish delight hot on its heels. “Oh? And what did our favorite sex worker have to say?” Her humor slips a bit when he doesn’t react. “Did something happen?”

Her relief is palpable when he shakes his head. “No, he’s… he’s fine. We thought we had a lead, but the guy was dead by the time we got there. When I was leaving the scene, I saw him. Bright was there.” Why the hell were you there, kid, he thinks, appalled that he somehow _still_ can’t bring himself to believe Bright’s involved.

Jackie hums, and he finds the same skepticism curdling in his gut swirling through the umber of her eyes. With a tug, she moves them over and onto the couch, curling into his side with her chin on his shoulder, arms circling his chest. Softly, she asks, “So, what are you going to do, love?”

He stares down at Bright’s words, the imploring warning, and then, looking up into Jackie’s eyes, into the depths of the unwavering faith she has in him, grins. “What I do best, apparently.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- graphic depiction of injury**
> 
> Things are going to start picking up speed now, my friends, so buckle yourselves in and get ready for a bumpy ride! I hope you'll consider leaving me a comment because every, single one makes my little mushroom heart soar. ❤
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please notice that your captain has turned on the "fasten seat belt" sign!
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> As always, beta'd by our very own (and very awesome) [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa)! If you are ever looking for some amazing Prodigal Son fanfiction, _look no further than their content, my friends._

## Bright

####  **Today** , 3:48 AM

Bright
    Did you know Ed Gein flayed a dead woman’s torso to make a corset?
    It’s almost a shame he never got a chance to wear it, don’t you think?
    Have you ever worn a corset, Detective?
    I have a few, but my favorite one is black lace. Would you like to see it?

####  **Today** , 4:04 AM

Bright
    Have you ever thrown a tomahawk? If not, you really should. They’re delightful.

“Wait, wait. He offered to show you his favorite corset?” Jackie presses a smile to his chest. “You think he would model it for you?”

“Is that really all you got out of that?” Gil lowers the phone and looks down to where her head is pillowed on his chest. When she simply raises an eyebrow, he rolls his eyes, fighting off a smile of his own. “I don’t know, Jackie, do you _want_ him to?”

“Well, it might be nice to have a face to match the name,” she fires back, lips stretching until they dimple her cheeks and crinkle the corners of her eyes. “Have him show a little backside, too, won’t you? From what I’ve heard, boy’s got back.”

“Funny,” he says, flat and unimpressed. “Maybe I should just give you his number, let you skip the middleman.”

“Hmmm, not a bad idea." With one bare leg thrown over his hips and an arm across his chest, Jackie plasters herself to his right side under the blankets, nuzzling up under his chin. “Maybe I can finally watch House Hunters with someone who won’t complain the whole time.”

“Sure, only because he _can’t_ complain.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”

A pregnant pause hangs in the air before they both dissolve into giggles. When Jackie twists, the hem of her tank top riding up, he sneaks a hand along her back, grabbing her right below her ribs and flexing his fingers. She gasps, body wiggling where she’s trapped against him, but he refuses to stop the tickles until she’s practically squealing, voice hoarse from laughter. Once she extricates herself from the tangle of sheets, she shoves his shoulder in faux rebuke, muttering “asshole” as she disappears into the bathroom.

After the door clicks closed behind her, Gil pushes up onto his elbows with a grunt, walking himself backwards until he’s upright against the headboard. Without thinking, he picks up his phone, and as soon as the screen lights up, Bright’s late night messages light up with it; despite the fact that he’d barely been awake thirty minutes, he feels the tug of bone-deep exhaustion.

If dancing around questions was an Olympic event, the kid would undoubtedly win gold. Every time he’d brought up the case or asked anything bordering on personal, Bright had, without fail, gone silent for a moment before countering with inane trivia and off-kilter questions of his own. They’d gotten exactly nowhere in the three hours before he’d given up and gone to bed. The most he could say is he now had a list of mental notes ranging from useless tidbits—he could have gone his entire life without knowing the kid’s favorite color was Ravish Me Red—to a bleak peek into Bright’s world. He’s smart—that much Gil had figured out during their first interaction. A few times, Bright had spouted facts from early 2000s Major Crimes cases, details even Gil hadn’t recalled, and his understanding of the perpetrators’ psyches was astonishing at best, unnerving at worst. His replies had each come within seconds, reeking of desperation and, under that, loneliness; Gil can’t help but wonder if any of his "regulars"—or anyone else in his life, for that matter—actually listen to him. And, of course, woven throughout every topic had been a hearty dose of flirtation that, Gil’s ashamed to admit, worked better than it should have. The kid had a way of making him laugh and keeping the conversation interesting, so when the occasional come-on had cropped up, the image of pale blue eyes and stocking-clad thighs had wormed into his head.

Staring down at the mass of texts he’d woken up to, he adds “insomniac” to his list, then pulls up his on-screen keyboard.

## Bright

####  **Today** , 4:04 AM

Bright
    Have you ever thrown a tomahawk? If not, you really should. They’re delightful.

####  **Today** , 5:56 AM

Gil
    Can’t say I have. You always plan weapons practice at 4AM?

He sets his phone on the nightstand and pulls off the sheets, intent on joining Jackie in the shower. The second his feet hit the floor, however, two back-to-back buzzes recapture his attention.

## Bright

Bright
    When the mood strikes.
    You’re up bright and early, and on a Saturday, no less. Plans?

Gil
    Nothing in particular, no.

Bright
    Well, if you’ve got $50, I can think of a few good ways to occupy your time.

Gil
    Anyone ever tell you it’s a bad idea to solicit police officers?

Bright
    I won’t tell if you don’t.

And there it is, he thinks as a million responses comes to mind, none of them appropriate. So, he forces himself to replace the phone on the nightstand and walk away. He thinks he hears the buzz of a notification just as he steps into the bathroom, but he closes the door, anyway. Stripping out of his boxers, he opens the shower curtain, and the sight of Jackie leaned against the far wall by the faucet, three fingers deep inside herself while the middle finger of her other hand massages her clit, takes the spark Bright’s text had caused in his gut and ignites it. Her eyes settle on his thickening length, pupils dilating impossibly wider.

“Took you long enough,” she whispers, face tilting back under the spray of water.

With a low growl, he steps into the tub and stalks over to her. “It’s okay, baby, Daddy’s here now.”

He brushes one hand along her shoulder to her chin and pulls her forward into a demanding kiss, the other slapping her fingers away from her engorged clit so he can press his cock there, instead. Unhurried, they slide against each other, lips and teeth and tongues catching more and more desperately as they increase their pace until one particularly forceful thrust of Gil’s hips shoves his cock into the fingers still buried in her cunt. She gasps, slipping them out and up into his hair, where they grab on tight as he pushes inside her.

“Yes,” she hisses as he picks her up and pins her back against the tile, slamming up into her.

“You like that?” he pants against her collarbone, building momentum while she hums her encouragement. He feels wild, driven by the tight heat of her and Bright’s suggestive words echoing in his skull, so he clamps his teeth down on her shoulder, sucking a mark that will last for days. She cries out as he licks at the abused skin, which only eggs him on further, and he adjusts his hold so he can drop a hand down between them, slotting his fingers around where he’s pumping into her. With his thumb, he feels along her folds in gentle circles that he tightens with each pass until he’s massaging all around her clit. Shudders ripple through her after only a minute, a surefire sign she’d been working at herself a while before he’d joined her. So, he redoubles his efforts, rubbing in time with his thrusts until she’s shoving back into him in frantic movements, eyes clenched closed. When her mouth falls open, breaths stuttering in her chest, he nips along her jaw and says, “Go ahead, baby girl. Come for me.”

With a guttural moan, Jackie tenses, body clamping down on him like a vice as she squirts out into his palm. He keeps his thumb moving as she rides out her orgasm, and when her eyes open to slits and she purrs, “Thank you, Daddy,” his own pleasure crescendos, a shout tearing out of his throat as he spills inside of her. It’s a miracle that neither of them takes a tumble while he comes down, arm quivering as he lowers her feet back to the floor, pulling free of her as he does. He massages her own slick into the skin of her flank, and she smooths her hands along his spine to his ass, squeezing it playfully before grasping the back of his neck.

She stands up on her tiptoes to murmur, “I love you,” into his throat, holding him close.

Burying his nose in her hair, Gil wraps his arms around her. “Love you, too, baby.”

Eventually, they part, and the water washes away all traces of their love-making, though gratification lingers in the steamy air until they turn off the tap. He watches droplets of water drip from her hair along the coppery skin of her neck and down along her shoulder blades. If he were ten years younger, the sight alone would be enough to get him going again. As it is, he looks on with a soft smile as she steps up to the sink and picks up her toothbrush, her hips rocking to the tuneless melody she hums through a mouthful of toothpaste. When mischievous eyes meet his in the mirror, he thinks it’s possible he’s never loved her more.

“You on your 12-hour rotation today?” he asks, slipping his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Mhm.” She spits into the sink. “Unfortunately. Or maybe,” she continues, slyly, “not so unfortunate, for one of us anyway.” Before he can ask what she means, she wiggles out of his embrace, slapping him on the ass on her way back into the bedroom. “Go get ‘im, tiger.”

He snorts and grabs for his own toothbrush, listening to the sound of her dressing in the next room. By the time he’s done, Jackie’s got her wet hair tied into a loose bun and is on her way out the door, blowing a kiss over her shoulder with a wave and a suggestive wink.

It takes him a few minutes to throw on a pair of slacks and a sweater, a few longer to brew some coffee and flavor it with cream and sugar, and longer still to admit he’s actively avoiding his phone. He wouldn’t call it fear, the stirring in his stomach when he thinks about the texts he knows await him, but something licks up his spine when he finally unlocks his phone.

_(6) New Messages_

What am I gonna do with you, kid, he thinks with a sigh and opens up the messages.

## Bright

Bright
    Am I being too forward, Detective?
    Should I expect our next talk to involve handcuffs? I can’t say I would mind.
    You aren’t actually upset, are you?
    I’m sorry.

####  **Today** , 6:31 AM

Bright
    1230 York Ave, Rockefeller University.
    Please, Gil. Hurry.

Gil
    What’s going on, Bright?

Something like liquid nitrogen rushes through his veins at the tonal shift. He’s familiar with the address, probably drove past it a thousand times on the beat, and he’s already mapping the fastest route there as he grabs his keys off the kitchen counter.

No reply comes as Gil races out to the Le Mans, nor when he peels away from the house in a cloud of smoke. The silent drive feels eternal, his eyes shifting to the clock every few seconds to be sure that’s only in his head. He fears the worst—that Bright landed himself in the killer’s crosshairs, and all he would find when he arrived was another corpse. That line of thinking only spurs him on faster, and he manages to screech to a stop by the curb in front of the university in less than twenty minutes. He throws open the door, not caring in the slightest about oncoming traffic, and takes off through the iron gateway.

Just when he’s debating which end of the campus to start searching, a hand shoots out and snags his jacket, jerking him to a stop. He’s got his Glock halfway out of its holster before he’s even turned around. So, when the light from an overhead lamp highlights anxious blue eyes, the relief is so sudden, he nearly drops his gun. Then, he takes a second look, and his lungs collapse.

Up to his throat—where that damn leather collar still sits snug against his skin—and down to mid-thigh, a fitted, black dress hugs every line of Bright’s slender body, intricate lace covering his arms down to a matching pair of lace gloves. His pale legs stretch smooth and bare down to a pair of black wedge sandals, ribbon ties crisscrossed up his calves. A blond, asymmetrical bob—is that a wig, Gil thinks in a moment of clarity—frames his almost unrecognizable face. Brushed on angles of concealer and foundation change the shape of his clean-shaven cheeks, his nose, and the jawline beneath his plum-painted lips while black coats his eyelids, contrasting the glow of his eyes. He’s _stunning,_ and Gil’s mouth goes dry at the revelation.

“Bright?” he croaks.

If any doubt remained about who was standing before him, the grin—even as lackluster as it is—reassures him even before the kid nods and takes his hand, leading him away into a copse of trees. From behind, he spots, not only the plunging open back of the little black dress, but also a mess of deep purple bruising all along Bright’s lower back and rib cage.

His initial urge to hold the kid still and question him about his injuries dies as they stumble into a clearing and a dead body comes into view. Their newest victim—a man about Bright’s age, by the look of him—lies spread-eagle in the grass, naked and strangled like all the others. A bloody patch of exposed muscle is all that remains of his genitals, and from the flesh poking out between his parted lips, Gil has a pretty good idea where the rest of them ended up. Upon closer inspection, a slit is carved into the meat of his groin, a mockery of labia trailing back to a deep incision made into his perineum.

“Christ,” Gil mutters under his breath, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “You found him like this, kid?”

Genuine grief pools in tears around Bright’s eyes as he looks down at the body and nods just once. Something special about this one, kid, Gil wonders as he watches the silent mourning. He waits another second before punching in 9-1-1, giving the dispatcher his badge number and their location before hanging up and staring hard at the extensive wound on Bright’s back. A dozen questions war in his brain for the right to be asked first, and just as he opens his mouth to give voice to one, the kid spins around to face him. As slowly as he had that night at the station, Bright signs to him, mouthing the letters as his hands shift smoothly between each.

_D - O - N - T - W - O - R - R - Y - I - M - F - I - N - E_

“Fine?” he asks, incredulous.

Bright nods, signing: _1 - 0 - 0_

“You know,” Gil counters with a sigh, “when you go with 100%, everyone can tell you’re lying. I can see the bruising. What happened? Do I need to call dispatch back and have them send a bus?”

Blue eyes stretch wide, and Bright waves his hands emphatically, his fingers a blur of _N - O_ , over and over. He places the flat of his left hand over his chest, rubbing in a tight circle a few times. Gil doesn’t need a translator to understand his desperate plea.

“All right, I won’t call for an ambulance if you tell me who hurt you.” When the kid starts off signing _N - O_ again, he shakes his head and growls, “Don’t you _dare_ say ‘no one’. You look like someone used you as a punching bag.”

Bright deflates, expression shifting from sheepish to anguished to resigned in the span of an instant, then signs: _I -_ _C - A - N - T_

“Right, of course you can’t,” Gil says frigidly, unable to withhold his bitter disappointment. He knows it isn’t the kid’s fault—if he’s in their killer’s orbit, one wrong move could end with him cold and mangled on Edrisa’s table—but frustration is wearing him ragged, and he just can’t smother it anymore. “Last week, were you hiding all this,” he gestures to the damage he knows lies just beneath the thin layer of cotton, “or is it new?”

Like a damn kicked puppy, Bright stares up at him through his lashes with shining eyes, demeanor sufficiently repentant. _N - E - W_

Gil nods, having already guessed as much by the coloration. He’s about ready to bring the kid home with him, have Jackie give him a once over to confirm what he suspects—that beneath the bruising, at least one rib is broken—before he remembers she won’t be home for another eleven hours or so. He runs through his meager options, weighing the merits of each until his own words cut into his thoughts: _If we don’t let him come to us, we’ll get absolutely nothing from him._

“Patience, love,” he knows Jackie would say if she were here. “Anything worth having is worth waiting for.”

And for whatever reason, Bright’s trust is at the top of his list of things worth having. So, he takes a deep breath, exhaling all the bullshit swirling around in his head. “Okay.” At the resulting look of bemusement, he clarifies, “I’m not going to push you any more, kid. You’ll tell me or you won’t. Either way, ball’s in your court, and I’m not interested in taking it from you.”

Bright stares at him with wonder, like he can’t fathom being allowed that tiny fraction of autonomy, and if Gil listens carefully, he can hear the sound of his own heart breaking. “Can you tell me anything about this one?”

So fast it nearly gives Gil whiplash, the kid turns his head back toward the body, face going blank. That same sadness bleeds back into his eyes, though, and he nods.

_M - Y - F - R - I - E - N - D_

“Friend,” Gil says, eyes flicking down to the victim’s bloodless face, cataloging the look of fear permanently etched onto the man’s otherwise handsome features. “Not just an ‘associate’, like the others?” Bright nods slowly. “Can you tell me his name?”

In the distance, the sound of sirens grows nearer, distracting him for a split second until one of Bright’s hands reaches up and lands on his chest. The touch is like a lightning rod, drawing his gaze first to lace-covered fingers then up to earnest eyes, and the kid uses his other hand to sign: _V - I - J - A - Y_

Before Gil can react, a handful of squad cars and the ESU van pull up on the curb, and a flood of first responders pour out into the courtyard, waving them out of the way. He takes Bright aside, sitting him down on a bench along the walkway with strict instructions to hold tight while he chats with the techs. Despite his obvious discomfort, the kid does as he’s told, more or less, tilting his head this way and that from time to time to watch the forensics team sweeping the scene. Much as he hates it, affection swells in Gil’s chest at the sight. Once a few more cars roll up, he pulls out his phone to check the time and is startled to find a text from his partner.

## JT

####  **Today** , 7:41 AM

JT
    i kno u dont think that bright kid did anything so u need to get him outta there ASAP

Gil frowns down at the message, fingers poised to respond, when he spots Shannon out of the corner of his eye advancing on the bench where he’d left Bright. Shit, he thinks as he jogs over, but not before the Lieutenant has a chance to yank the kid to his feet by his arm.

“Hey,” he shouts when he reaches them, strength of will the only thing keeping him from ripping Shannon’s hand away. “What the—what are you doing, sir?”

“Ah, Arroyo. I take it this,” he says as he shakes Bright, a sneer slashed across his lips, “is the one and only ‘Mr.’ Bright, eh?”

Gil swallows disgust at the not-so-subtle dig at the kid’s dolled-up appearance. “I—yes, sir.”

“I see,” Shannon says as he steadily drags a now-struggling Bright down the sidewalk toward the mass of police cars. “Good work informing me when the suspect contacted you, Detective. I’ll be sure to mention it in your review.”

“The sus—?” he starts to ask before freezing, the crushing weight of realization slamming into him, just shy of knocking him to his knees. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, words trapped in his throat right beside the guilt rapidly cutting off his air supply.

The Lieutenant either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and once he reaches his squad car, he slams Bright down over the hood. The kid’s mouth opens around a silent scream, pain contorting his features as tears smear his eyeliner down his cheeks. Gil watches, stunned, as Shannon snatches handcuffs from his belt and locks them around narrow wrists that tremble in his hold. Panicked blue eyes stab into his own, another desperate plea that he’s powerless to answer. And as he yanks Bright upright, Shannon delivers the final nail in the coffin:

“Well, Mr. Bright, it may interest you to know that you’re under arrest for murder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- explicit sexual content**   
>  **\- crossdressing**   
>  **\- graphic depiction of injury**   
>  **\- mild transphobic attitudes**
> 
> I'd say I'm sorry for the cliffhanger, but... _am I?_ Don't worry, I'm really excited for the next bit of this story, so you won't have to wait long for an update. 😉 If you enjoyed, please consider leaving me a comment! Nothing in the world motivates me more... *hint hint*
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter practically wrote itself, and I loved every second of it! That said, it does deal with an unpleasant subject (which has been added in the tags).
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> As always, beta'd by my favorite person, [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa)!

The white noise of the Le Mans’ engine keeps Gil mostly sane on the short drive back to the station, at least until he parks beside Shannon and has to watch him haul Bright out of the backseat by his elbow. The kid’s face screws up in agony, the oblong angle jostling his damaged ribs. Gil follows hot on their heels before JT’s even out of the car. The Lieutenant stops only long enough to order a uni—Sanders or Samberg or something he can’t be bothered to remember through his anger—to retrieve the case file then drags Bright back toward the interrogation rooms. Just as he’s almost caught up, a hand catches his shoulder.

“You don’t wanna do that, man,” he rushes to say when Gil whirls to glare at him. “Picking a fight isn’t gonna help the kid, and you know that. Just leave it alone.”

“Leave it al—Bright is _injured,_ and Shannon’s tossing him around like a goddamn ragdoll.”

“I know,” JT answers in a cool voice. “And I get that you want to help, but this is not the way to do it. We can go watch the interrogation, yeah? That way, you can keep a eye on him while you get your head on straight.”

The impulse to rip JT’s head clean off his shoulders rears up, but then he runs the words back and has to, begrudgingly, admit his partner’s got a point. Not trusting himself to speak, Gil gives one sharp nod and lets himself be herded into the viewing room. Through the two-way mirror, he sees that Shannon has shoved Bright down into one of the chairs and hooked his cuffs to the anchor on the table. A lump forms in his throat when he catches a good look at the kid’s tear-stained face, the red rims of his eyes, and he can’t look away even as Whatever-The-Hell-His-Name-Is enters, places a manila folder on the table, and bows out again. The steady swell of rage in his gut plateaus when Shannon eventually pulls out the other chair, metal legs screeching across the concrete, and drops into it.

“So, ‘Mr.’ Bright,” he emphasizes the title again with a sneer, and Gil’s knuckles go white. “Why don't we start with what you were doing on the Rockefeller campus this morning?”

Bright glares up at him through the ruffled bangs of his wig, wrists tugging against the too-short chain tethering him to the table.

_M - Y - F - R - I - E - N - D - N - E - E - D - E - D_

“Well?” Shannon barks, ignoring the kid’s hands completely. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

“Son of a bitch,” Gil growls as he watches a mortified blush spread over Bright’s cheeks. It takes the kid a minute to gather his wits, jaw clenched as he shifts his hands, one dipping down so he can raise the other into Shannon’s view.

_M - Y - F - R - I - E - N - D_

“We’re not gonna get very far like this,” the Lieutenant interrupts again, face blank save the sickening curl at one corner of his lips. “You’re in enough trouble as it is, Mr. Bright. Now’s not the time for the silent treatment.”

Gil takes off toward the door, consumed by the image of his fist colliding with Shannon’s nose, but JT shoves past him before he gets there, saying, “I got it,” over his shoulder as he steps out into the hall. The door to the interrogation room thuds open, to the surprise of both its occupants, and his partner strides right up to Bright, setting a notepad and pen down in front of him.

“Sir,” is the only acknowledgement he offers Shannon before returning the way he came.

“Thank you,” Gil says solemnly, and JT responds with a distracted wave, focus squarely on the scene unfolding beyond the mirror.

Bright has snatched up the pen, but before he can put it to the page, the Lieutenant reaches over and plucks it out of his hold. Beside him, JT covers his mouth, brows furrowed low, and a muttered “Shit” sneaks out between his fingers. The incredulous expression on the kid’s face shifts to anger for all of a second before dread overtakes them both as Shannon tucks the pen into his breast pocket. “Can’t be too careful with a serial murderer, you know. Wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt, would we?”

The gleam in Bright’s eyes says he would very much like for someone to get hurt; an echoing desire resonates within Gil. Folding his hands between them on the table, Shannon leans forward. “Since you aren’t interested in talking, how about you just listen, instead. That body you ‘found’ is the sixth one in five weeks. Real grisly stuff.” He opens the case file and pulls out a stack of photos. “The first one, see, looked like someone took a weed whacker to her back,” then he slides the close-up shot of the damage over to Bright, whose face blanches white as the wall behind him. “We found the next one in a pile of trash, guts all torn out across the sidewalk. The one after that? Poor bastard had all the skin peeled off his face.” Two more photos skid across the table. “And you know about the other three, don’t you, since you were at those scenes? Thing is,” the mock-buddy façade evaporates between blinks, revealing the deep well of contempt beneath, “I think we both know that you were there for all of them, and this innocent act is wearing real thin.

“You enjoyed it, didn’t you? Making them all suffer, knowing they couldn’t do a damn thing to stop you, watching the light fade from their eyes—really gets you off, I bet. Because you’re one sick motherfucker, aren’t you, Mr. Bright?”

The very implication turns Gil’s stomach, but it’s got nothing on the abject horror spreading over Bright’s face. He’s shaking his head, subconscious denial bleeding out in the jerky back and forth motion. The handcuff chain rattles, the sound building as his tremor worsens, and Gil wants nothing more than to march in there and declare this sham of an interrogation over. And yet, he’s forced to watch once again, furious and utterly _useless,_ as the Lieutenant tears into the poor kid.

“Nothing to say to that, either, huh?” Shannon asks, lips splitting into a smirk when Bright’s shaking fingers try to form letters. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Well, maybe a night in lockup will change your mind.” He pushes to his feet, casually stretching out his back before gathering the photos back into the case file and meandering toward the door.

Bright shoots up in a blur, chair toppling out from under him with a clatter. Gil and JT both recoil from the swift movement, but it hardly fazes Shannon, who glances back over his shoulder, boredom carved into every line on his face. He raises an expectant brow when the kid tries to sign _L - A - W - Y_ , but he may as well have been speaking Mandarin, for all the good it does him. Without breaking eye contact, the Lieutenant scoffs then turns his back, oblivious to the devastation he’s leaving in his wake as he exits the room. Bright’s indignation crumbles, despondency swooping in its place, and he falls to his knees on the cold concrete.

JT’s harrumph breaks Gil from his self-loathing trance. “Look, you take care of the kid, okay? I’ll talk to Shannon.” By the look on his face, their superior’s little display didn’t sit right with him, either.

“Yeah,” is all Gil mutters before beginning the walk of shame, the sound of the interrogation room door clicking closed behind him too loud in the deafening silence. As he nears the table, he catches the sound of shuddering breaths and the occasional wheeze. He extends a hand toward Bright’s shoulder, but the kid flinches hard, snapping his elbows straight as the chain pulls taut against the anchor. His makeup is ruined, carried along his cheeks and chin by tears that continue to bead along his lower lids, and the black smeared around his eyes only accentuates the harsh glint of fear within. It takes a moment for that panic to clear, but when it does, his shoulders droop, arms falling limp.

Gil flounders, knowing nothing he says will undo the damage Shannon had done, but he swallows self-pity down and tries anyway. “Are you okay, kid?” Sniffing, Bright levels him with a withering glare. “Right, stupid question. Let’s get you out of these, okay?”

He retrieves his keys from his back pocket, and the second he unlocks the cuffs, the kid’s arms flop down into his lap where he flexes his pale, bloodless fingers. When he makes no move to stand, Gil clears his throat and offers a hand. Blue eyes dart to the proffered limb then up to his face, filled with resignation and, strangely, gratitude—which he knows he doesn’t deserve after everything he’d just allowed to happen. Bright, once back on his feet, responds by tapping his fingertips to his chin like he had in the Le Mans the night they met.

“Can I trust you not to cause trouble?” Gil asks.

The kid nods, wiping away tear tracks with rough swipes, then tugs the wig right off his head. He tosses it on the table, running his fingers through his hair to shake it loose from where it’s been pressed into his scalp. He nods again to indicate he’s ready to go before snatching the tangled, blond mess back up. It’s a good thing he does, too, because Gil’s honed in on a single silken strand sticking straight out over his ear, and he’s struck by the urge to tuck it back for him. Blinking away the inappropriate thought and praying it hadn't shown on his face, he ushers Bright out into the rest of the precinct.

A smattering of unis dot the bullpen, a dozen eyes tracking their progress with poorly disguised interest as they make their way to the holding cell. Bright doesn’t seem to notice, just trails after Gil without prompting. Once they reach the cell, they find a couple of bloodied drunks slumping on opposite ends of the far wall, occasionally casting glares at each other while a third lies curled into a ball on the floor beside the toilet. Something about the way the creep on the left tracks the bare skin of Bright’s legs to the hem of his too-short dress sets Gil’s hackles rising, and last minute, he throws an arm out to block the kid from entering the cell.

“You know what? I’ll just get you booked, myself.” He slams the cell door and marches away before he can show his hand anymore than he already has. Get it together, he thinks sternly as he positions Bright in front of the height chart, about ready to go snap a shot when he remembers the heels. He opens his mouth, but before he has a chance to speak, the kid drops to one knee, dress slipping so far up his thighs it’s amazing he doesn’t flash God and everyone. He makes quick work of the ribbons, first on one calf and then the other, and lets the sandals flop off his feet. It isn’t until he raises his head that Gil realizes the position they’re in and just how close Bright’s face is to a body part that’s a little more interested in the proceedings than it has any right to be. And, judging by the way his pupils expand, the kid doesn’t mind in the slightest.

“Come on,” he blurts before the situation can devolve any further, “let’s get you up.”

Bending at the waist, he yanks Bright to his feet, startled at first by how lightweight he is and again by how much shorter he is without his shoes—about the same height as Jackie, which is not a comparison he needs to be making right now. Doesn’t matter, Gil thinks and shoves him toward the wall, backing up as fast as he can without looking like he’s running away. He puts the camera between them. “Put your back against the wall and face me.”

As soon as the kid squares his shoulders and stands tall—all five foot seven inches of him—Gil grabs a picture and has him turn for a profile shot, too. He spends an extra minute checking the images to give himself time to calm his racing heart, and then with a wave, brings Bright over to collect his prints, rolling each finger over the scanner with as minimal skin-on-skin contact as possible. After that, he opens one of the desk drawers and pulls out an evidence bag, holding it open, and pointing to the wig and his collar. “I’ll need to take those. I promise you’ll get them back when you get out.”

With a huff, Bright signs _I - F_ and reaches around to undo the buckle of his collar. The white of his scar stands out like a beacon.

“No,” he responds emphatically. _“When_ you get out of here, you’ll get your things back.” His words don’t seem to reassure as much as he’d like, so he decides he’ll just have to be confident enough for the both of them—or fake it, at the very least. They make the quick trip to the cell block, and he’s got one unlocked, door held open, before he realizes he hasn’t searched Bright yet. Shit. “All right, kid, I need to do a full-body search. Would you feel more comfortable if I brought in a second officer? Or a, uh, female officer?”

Bright’s eyes make a slow circuit down his body and back, the first hint of a real smile on his lips, and he shakes his head. Keep it together, Arroyo, he thinks and gestures to the cell. As they step inside, the kid lifts his arms into a T-pose, feet shoulder-width apart, and throws a sly side-eye at him. Gently as he’s able, he runs the backs of his hands along Bright’s sides—he still winces when they reach his ribs—and down his stomach then around and across an unfairly curvy backside. The lace of his dress feels soft on his palms, and Gil tries to ignore how easily his fingers close around surprisingly muscular legs.

He fails.

When he rights himself, Bright cocks his head and flies through a complex series of signs: both hands held in the ASL letter "Y" at chest level, he swings them forward and down until they're parallel to the floor, palms up; then, he points to his chest, and Gil feels safe in assuming that one means "I;" next, he makes a hook with his index finger then moves it like he's tapping someone on the shoulder; and last, he curls his hands into fists with one index finger pointing toward the ceiling and swirls them in a circle, creating the illusion that he's passing the extended digit from one hand to the other and back again.

Brows twisted, Gil says, “I have no idea what that means.”

Bright, the little shit, grins. _I - K - N - O - W_

Frustrated as he is about the language barrier, seeing a little of that mischievous humor return draws a smile to Gil's face. Later on, he wouldn’t be able to say why he does it, but his hand has a mind of its own, it seems, as it moves to cup the back of Bright’s slender neck. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll be out of here before you know it.”

Leaving him there, caged like a dog, sets Gil's nerves on fire, which isn’t helped in the slightest by the hint of a blush he spots high on those wicked cheekbones. The blaze spreads, mind feverish as it hatches schemes to help Bright then dismisses them faster than he can process. He grows more agitated with every passing second. By the time he makes it back to his desk, he can hardly think, black eating away at the edges of his vision, so it's a surprise that he notices JT’s empty desk. When he does, though, Shannon’s ugly mug pops into his head, and the frenetic energy crackling through his body filters into fury until he’s ready to burst with it. Without pause, he changes direction, angling for the Lieutenant’s office, where he can see the bastard and JT locked in a heated exchange that’s about to get about a few thousand degrees hotter.

The door smacks against the wall, window rattling in the frame. The conversation cuts off. JT turns around while Shannon shifts his aggravated gaze over, upper lip peeling away from his teeth. “The hell do you think you’re doing, Arroyo?”

“What was that in there?” Gil asks, voice cold and deadly.

Shannon’s eyes narrow. “I don’t think I like your ton—”

“What,” he snarls, advancing on him, “the _hell_ was that?”

“Man, don’t—” JT starts.

“Let him, Tarmel.” The Lieutenant leans back in his chair and spreads his hands wide. “You got something to say to me?”

Every muscle flexed and ready, he stalks closer and slaps his palms on the edge of the desk. “You arrested that kid with zero evidence linking him to the murders, roughed him up, mocked his disability, and ignored his request for a lawyer. Do you have any idea the position you’ve put this precinct in, or are you too busy stroking your own ego to realize it?”

To his right, he can hear the hissed breath his partner draws, but he doesn’t break his piercing eye contact with Shannon. “Interesting observations, but I think you might have missed an important one. Let me help you out with that.” He shoves out of his chair, drawing up to his full, imposing stature. “The name on that door reads Lt. Owen Shannon, and I am the commanding officer of the NYPD's Major Crimes Division, _Detective_ Arroyo _._ You report to me, and that means, what I say goes. If you can’t get that through your thick head, I suggest you put in for a transfer. Until then, you will show me some respect or hand in your gun and your badge.” Leaning down right into Gil’s face, he growls, “Am I clear?”

Nostrils flaring, Gil grabs at his belt for his badge when JT says softly. “You can’t help the kid if you get yourself suspended, man.”

The words cut through the static, and he freezes, torn between his anger and pride, and the overwhelming drive to get Bright out of this mess. “That’s not even a choice," Jackie’s voice whispers through his head. "Not for you." Haltingly, he drops his hands and straightens, backing away until he’s beside JT.

Shannon snorts and flops back into his chair. “That’s what I thought. Now, both of you, get the hell out of my office.”

“Sir,” JT says and swiftly grabs Gil by the elbow, dragging him back to their conjoined desks. “What the hell was that shit? You want to get yourself kicked off this case?”

Gil slams his fist on his desk and hangs his head. “What do you think, JT?” Out of the corner of his eye, he expects to see anger or disappointment, maybe, but finds only the concern. He deflates, anger rushing out of him along with what little oxygen remains in his lungs. Shaking his head, he falls into his seat and covers his face with his hands. “I didn’t sign up for this job to pin crimes on whoever's around, regardless of their guilt. Bright is _not_ our killer, and any idiot with eyes could tell you that. But Shannon’s determined to make this stick, and I don’t know what to do.”

JT claps his shoulder, the warmth from his palm seeping through Gil’s sweater. “Listen, man. Whatever Shannon says, you’re the best detective in this precinct. I don’t have an answer for you—wish I did—but you’ll figure this out like you always do.”

“You sound like Jackie,” he mumbles, but he can’t deny the pep talk’s efficacy.

“I have met your wife, and I will take that compliment,” JT replies cheerily before patting his shoulder a couple times and walking off.

He keeps his face buried in his hands, stretching the limits of his own sanity by looping back to look for anything he could do to fix this. What the kid really needs is a lawyer, he thinks, tempted for a moment to check Google for how much a good legal aid costs. Instead, he pulls up the contacts on his phone and browses for Jackie—who always seems to know what to say at times like these—accidentally passing her in his haste. While backtracking, he does a double take on a name he hasn’t thought about in years. Really, he should keep scrolling, but the bug has already burrowed into his brain, chittering that she could actually help, _would_ help if he asked. So, without thinking too hard about it, he taps the call icon and brings the phone to his ear.

After two rings, the line clicks over, and an irritated alto voice comes through. “I swear to god, if this is another solicitor hoping to weasel money out of me at nine in the morning, I will track you down, buy out whatever misguided company hired you, and have you scrubbing toilets by the end of the day.”

Chuckling, he says, “Hello, Jess.”

After a pointed pause, her voice, thin and tight with shock, replies, “Gil? Gil Arroyo, my god, is that really you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He has to clear his throat a couple times before he can force the next words out. “I’m sorry to do this, especially after so long, but I—I could really use your help. There’s an innocent kid in lockup right now—”

The line, which had been quiet, rustles, and he catches a distinct click, like a wallet clasp being popped. “Say no more. What can my bank account and I do for my favorite Detective?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- ableism (specifically with regards to Malcolm's mutism)**   
>  **\- crossdressing**   
>  **\- mild transphobic attitudes**
> 
> Whew, that was a bit rough, but things are looking up! If you guys enjoyed this chapter, please consider leaving me a comment; nothing makes me happier than hearing from you!
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief hiatus, _last week was the devil._ That said, this chapter was super fun to write once I got around to it, so I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> As always, thank you to the incomparable [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa) for the beta!

Come on, Gil thinks as he glares at the clock on his monitor, knee bouncing restlessly under his desk, but 10:13 AM stares back, unaffected. Logically, he realizes only forty minutes have passed since he got off the phone with Jess, but every second Bright spends in lockup is one too many. Gil can’t take much more. As hard as he’d resisted reaching out to her, he must admit finding relief in knowing he’s not alone in the fight anymore.

“Don’t you dare feel guilty asking me for help, Gil,” she’d said near the end, voice sharp to hide a tremble. “After everything you’ve done for my family, this is the least I can do.”

He tries to force himself to work on his report. The same paralytics found in all the other victims' systems turned up in Jake Henderson’s and Vijay’s, as well, implying the same killer, but the violence of their fifth crime scene still stands so blatantly apart from the rest. Every time he looks a little closer, though, his thoughts stall and circle back to the one thing he knows for sure: Bright didn't kill these people. He’s in the middle of contemplating how Shannon might react if he included that particular observation in his report when an unfamiliar voice speaks.

“Detective Arroyo?”

Faster that he means to, Gil spins his chair around, startling the woman behind him. As she straightens, a tumble of golden blond curls slips back over her shoulder, and a pair of eyes almost as striking as Bright’s meet his own. 

“My name is Eve Blanchard. Jessica Whitly asked me to come, said something about you needing some legal help?”

The words run through his head on a loop, and only on the third pass do they register. He shoots up to his feet, mood rising along with his body. “Ms. Blanchard. I’m glad you’re here, but I’m not the one who needs your help. If you’ll follow me, I can explain.”

A wrinkle appears between her brows, vanishing almost as quickly as it appeared, and she falls into easy step beside him. “You asked me here on behalf of a suspect?”

Gil nods once, eyes darting up and down the hallway before he steers her into an empty office, closing the door behind them as quietly as possible. “What information did Je—Mrs. Whitly share with you?”

One of Eve’s eyebrows has crept up along her forehead, but she seems more amused than anything. “Not much. She mentioned someone at the 19th needed help and that you were the man to speak to about it. So…?”

With a sigh, he slides a hand up and scrubs at the hair on the back of his neck, the other latching onto his hip. “We made an arrest this morning for—well, I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders by now.”

Though her expression doesn’t change, Eve backs up a step and cocks her head. “My client is a suspect in the East Side Slicer case.”

“Depends on who you ask,” Gil grumbles. “Personally, I don’t think the kid had anything to do with the murders, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Problem is he can’t talk, and even if he could, I’m not convinced my C.O. would listen to him. Shannon's already ignored his request for a lawyer, and I—I think the kid could really use someone in his corner right now.”

Her gaze turns assessing. “You know, not many cops would go out of their way to secure legal counsel for one of their suspects, even one they think is innocent.” A small smile curls at the corners of her mouth. “I can see why Jessica likes you.”

Unsure how to respond, he clears his throat and indicates the door with a vague wave. “I can show you to your client now, if you’re still interested?”

When she inclines her head, he leads her back into the hall and down to the holding cells. He unlocks the door to the block, and Bright startles, jerking away from the wall he was leaned against, nearly falling from the cot. His big, blue eyes land on Gil, dart over to Eve, then bounce back in the span of a breath, bewildered.

“Bright, this is Eve Blanchard.” Eve offers a warm smile. “She’s a lawyer, and she wants to talk with you about everything that's happened, if you’re okay with that?” Bright, still unsure, nods after a minute. Turning to her, Gil asks, “Would you like me to escort you both to an interrogation room? Or I can set you up in a private office, if you’d prefer?”

“An interrogation room is perfect, Detective,” she responds, keeping her eyes trained on Bright.

An entire conversation seems to pass between them through microexpressions and shifts in posture, and Gil hesitates before breaking the spell by opening the cell door.

Bright hops up, spine bowing as he stretches, snatches up the sandals he never bothered to put back on— _don’t focus on his height, don’t focus on his_ —and pads out into the corridor. The cold concrete can’t feel good on the soles of his feet, but if it bothers him, he doesn’t show it. Before he can fall into the trap of staring at the kid again—a habit, at this point—Gil turns and leads the way to the nearest interrogation room, stopping off briefly at his desk to grab a pen and a notepad. When they arrive, he holds the door open for them, and as he passes by, Bright gives him a—pun notwithstanding—bright smile and does his chin-tap thank you. Gil gives a tight-lipped response and lets the door fall shut between them, but the afterimage of dimpled cheeks and shining eyes lingers.

While he’s standing watch at the door, mind still racing even after fifteen minutes, JT appears at the end of the hall, bearing down on him the instant their eyes lock. “Hey, what’s going on? I saw—” He pauses when he realizes where they’re standing and sees the discomfort in Gil’s expression. “So, she is here for the kid, then. Do I even need to ask how he landed one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the city? Man, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about what kind of man I would be if I didn’t.”

JT sighs, scrubbing at his brow. “I was afraid you’d say that. You know Shannon is gonna lose it, right?”

“I know,” he huffs, shaking his head. “But you saw Bright ask for a lawyer. I just… gave him a little help.”

Gil’s tempted to comment on his partner’s stony look, warn that he really should be careful lest his face stay that way. “I think we have very different definitions of ‘a little help.’ Did you talk to her?”

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he responds carefully, wincing at his obvious dodge.

“That holier-than-thou prick,” Jessica had bitten out when he’d explained Shannon's treatment of Bright. “Thank god for you and—what was his name again? Tamir? Jarmel?—your partner, in any case. I think I know just the woman to put your Lieutenant in his place.”

“You told that Whitly lady, didn’t you? Shit, that woman scares the hell outta me,” JT groans, doing a little spin and throwing up his hands. “Okay,” he continues once they’re facing each other again, “how do you wanna play it? We need to be smart and get ahead of this before Shannon finds out on his own.”

“I—” The rest of the sentence dies on his lips as the Lieutenant rounds the corner, the fires of Hell blazing in his eyes and all its hounds at his heels. “I think the ship has sailed on that one.”

His partner spins, face blanching. “Lt. Shannon—”

Thrusting his hand in JT’s face, the Lieutenant, eyes sharp as needles, says, “Stand aside, Arroyo.”

Gil raps sharply on the door before moving out of the way. Shannon snarls at him, shoving him back farther with his forearm before barging into the interrogation room. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with my suspect?”

Eve, still folding a couple sheets of paper, glances up. Her face twists into a mimicry of friendliness as she slips the pages into her briefcase, but only a fool would mistake the glint in her eyes and the sharp flash of canines. “Ah, Lt. Shannon, I was just about to come look for you. My name is—”

“I know exactly who you are, Ms. Blanchard,” Shannon growls. “Why are you here?”

Eve takes his interruption in stride. “Perfect, we forego formalities, then. You already know why I’m here, Lieutenant, so why don’t we skip the rhetorical questions while we’re at it. Any particular reason you denied my client his right to have an attorney present during questioning? It fits nicely into the misconduct lawsuit I'll be filing against this precinct, so I suppose I can't complain."

An ugly maroon flush creeps along Shannon’s face, one particularly overtaxed vein in his temple throbbing beneath thin skin. “Misconduct? You must be joking. Your client killed six people—”

“Allegedly,” she interjects with a nonchalant shrug.

“—and we treated him as we would have treated any other serial killer,” he plows through, raising his voice to drown hers out, nearly shouting by the end. His form is tense, threatening, and a lesser woman might have flinched.

Eve, on the other hand, smiles. Beside her, the vindicated look on Bright’s face is almost worth everything he’d gone through that morning. Almost. “I see. So, it’s common practice in this precinct to antagonize your suspects, violate the Americans with Disabilities Act, and refuse legal counsel? I wonder if Judge McGrath will find that information as interesting as I do.”

It’s almost painful to bite back a grin; as it stands, Gil has to hide the twitching of his lips behind his hand. You really outdid yourself, Jess.

Heaving rapid breaths like a raging boar, Shannon grits, “Are you threatening me, Ms. Blanchard?”

Exaggerated distress spreads across Eve’s face, and she brings a hand to her chest. “Oh, of course not. I'm only speculating about the legality of your methods. You know, I'm friends with the county clerk. I bet she could pull some strings, get this case moved up the queue if I asked. Your team would need to get me any evidence you have against my client ASAP, but I think I could swing it. What do you say?"

Luckily, she doesn’t wait for a response because Gil isn’t sure the Lieutenant would have the wherewithal to provide one. Her amicable façade melts away. “Thing is, I think we both know you don’t actually have any evidence against my client.” He doesn’t miss the echo of Shannon’s words or the way Bright’s lips twitch into smirk. "If you really want to see how this plays out, you technically have," she raises one slender wrist to check her watch, "just under sixty-nine hours to file an indictment. Good luck finding a prosecutor willing to follow through. That said, if you're willing to listen to reason, I believe we can reach a mutually beneficial arrangement."

“Is that so,” the Lieutenant shoots back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “And how do you propose we do that, exactly?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Eve responds earnestly, as if she can’t read his attitude like a picture book. "After this conversation, you're going to let my client walk out of the precinct on his own recognizance. He'll leave you his contact information, and he's agreed not to leave the city until the investigation concludes. He's also willing to provide a DNA sample in case your medical examiner uncovers and biological materials. If you accept these terms, my client could be persuaded to drop the misconduct suit."

“How generous of him,” Shannon says, pupils narrowing to pinpricks when they shift over to Bright. “We let you walk, and in exchange, what? You don’t sue us?”

“Quite generous when you consider the sum I could net him if we proceeded, Lt. Shannon. He could be a rich man,” Eve says, pulling the Lieutenant’s attention back to herself and giving him a toothy grin. “So, what do you say? Would you prefer option A, where you and the rest of your unit walk away from this relatively unscathed, or option B, where I bring the full wrath of the American legal system down on all of you?”

Gil can see the struggle behind Shannon’s eyes, his pride demanding he dig in his heels and die on this hill, if that’s what it comes to, while the rational side—underdeveloped, though it may be—recognizes the more-than-reasonable proposal. Though a million thoughts run through his mind, ways he could try and tip the scales in Bright’s favor, anything out of his mouth would likely produce the opposite effect. He says nothing.

“Goddamn it,” the Lieutenant grumbles under his breath before squaring his shoulders and fixing an intimidating glare on Eve and Bright. “Fine. Get his information logged in your report, Arroyo, and get him the hell out of my precinct.” As he storms out, he glances back over his shoulder. “And I hope you’re aware of what will happen to you if you try to run.” The door slam shut before anyone can respond.

In the subsequent silence, realization strikes Gil hard; his desperate bid worked. Bright's a free man. It feels like the crushing weight of guilt and shame drops off his shoulders, and he’s light as air as he meets the kid’s relieved gaze. Swallowing to dislodge the emotions blocked up in his throat, he calls out for JT. “Can you go grab Bright’s things out of evidence?”

“Sure thing, man,” his partner says, an uncharacteristically happy quality to his voice.

“Detective Arroyo,” Eve says, waiting until she has his attention to go on. “Could I speak with you for a moment? Alone,” she adds with a flick of her eyes in Bright’s direction.

“Sure. Would you mind waiting here for Detective Tarmel to bring your things?”

Bright grins at him then raises a hand. He tucks his thumb under his chin, hand clenched into a fist, and slides it forward, shaking his head. Then, he slots his extended index finger into the space between his nose and upper lip, curls his middle and ring fingers down, and rotates his hand a few times. Gil rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what that means, kid.”

_I - K - N - O - W_

Eve watches the exchange with a twinkle in her eye, standing only after Bright drops his hands. “I’ll only need a moment. And, if you need me,” she reaches into her briefcase, pulling out a business card, “give me a call anytime, okay?”

Bright accepts the card, but unlike with Gil’s, he simply lays it on the table; Gil tries not to ruminate on the possible meaning— in the actions or lack thereof—and follows Eve out into the hallway.

She keeps her face down, hair casting shadows and hiding her thoughts. Long after his good humor has faded, unease slinking along his spine and settling in his gut, she looks up at him, and he’s startled by the wetness in her eyes. “Jessica told me about what you did for her. For Malcolm.”

Nausea ripples through him, and he can feel the blood draining from his face. “What I—what, you mean completely failing them?”

“No,” she snaps, laying a palm flat on his chest. “When her eleven-year-old was missing and everyone else—even her own husband—told her she was chasing a ghost, you gave her hope. You came to her home every week for over a year to give her updates. And when there were none, you talked to her, listened, and you never gave up on Malcolm. It’s incredible what you did for that woman and her family.” The hand on his chest curls into the fabric of his jacket. “And now, I get it. Why she called me to help you and Bright. Because you’re not going to give up on him, either, are you?”

Gil’s mouth flaps open a few times, but words won’t come. So, instead, he purses his lips and shakes his head, pushing back the sudden sting of tears.

Eve smiles, a quivering twist of her lips. “Good.”

An awkward cough catches them both off guard, and they separate in a flurry of motion. Leaning against the wall at the mouth of the hallway, JT raises an eyebrow at him and holds out the evidence bag. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No,” he says quickly, wrenching the bag away and retreating a few steps farther. “This is perfect, thank you, JT. Was there anything else I could help you with, Ms. Blanchard?”

She shakes her head. “I trust you’ll take good care of my client, Detective?”

“Of course,” Gil murmurs.

With one last nod, Eve spins on her heel and disappears around the corner. He listens to the sound of her heels on the linoleum until even those fade. All the air in his lungs expel in a whoosh. Out of the corner of his eye, JT shifts and says, “You got the kid, or…?”

“Yeah, I got him,” he says and, without another word, yanks open the interrogation room door—

—only to nearly smack face-first into Bright. Blue eyes blink up at him a few times before mischief creeps in.

_S - O - R - R - Y_

Trying to calm his heart—and ignoring JT’s snickering to his right—Gil waves the apology away. “Do you want a ride somewhere, kid?”

Bright makes a show of thinking the offer over, one finger tapping at his chin as he squints thoughtfully, but he can’t seem to contain the grin that slowly spreads across his face. While one hand rubs a circle over his heart, he nods and sweeps his arm in an “after you” gesture.

They walk quickly to the Le Mans, the kid eager to relish his reestablished freedom, and Gil… well, he’s wracking his brain for an elegant way to breach the subject of medical care again before he has to drop Bright off. The silence ringing between them only seems to deepen, though, once the doors slam shut, sealing them away from the rest of the world. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the inquisitive tilt of Bright’s head and sighs.

“Kid, are you sure I can’t convince you to go to a hospital? Those bruises are… they’re pretty bad.”

Just as it had on the campus that morning, real fear seeps out onto the kid’s face. Unlike on the campus, however, he doesn’t otherwise immediately react outside a single, violent tremor in his left hand. After a thick gulp, he signs: _I - C - A - N - T_

Reminding himself that he said he wouldn't push, Gil clenches his eyes shut for a moment, fingers following suit on the steering wheel. “All right. Where am I taking you, then?”

His heart nearly stops as Bright slides a hand up under the hem of his dress, turning away just as he catches a glimpse of red lace. He can feel his cheeks flood with blood, and the image of that delicate hand sliding along a pale thigh repeats in his head until the kid taps his arm. Displayed on his cellphone screen, Google Maps highlights the quickest route to an unknown address, and Gil takes the proffered device. It’s warm in his hand.

“I wondered where your phone ended up,” he mutters as he memorizes the turns he’ll need to take. Bright snorts.

The ten-minute drive flies by, and before he knows it—long before he’s ready to say goodbye—he pulls over in front of a shady motel that advertises hourly rates on the placard in the office window. A cold stone sinks in the pit of his stomach, acid crawling up the back of his throat and bringing with it the astringent flavor of bile. Bright twists to remove his seat belt, and the pain that distorts his face in the red light of the open sign overhead finally kicks Gil into action.

“Bright, wait,” he says, reaching over to pull him back around. “Look, I get it. Hospitals ask a lot of questions and keep records you’d probably rather avoid, but you’re hurt.” A retort is written in the disappointment in the kid’s eyes, but he holds up his free hand. “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do—I meant what I said this morning. I just—I hoped you might consider coming home with me, instead. Not like that,” he rushes to clarify. “My wife, she’s a paramedic,” he chooses his words carefully, “and I’d feel a lot better if you let her examine your injuries. You’d be free to leave whenever you wanted to, I promise, but… please?”

Hard as it is, he releases his hold on Bright’s wrist and leans back in his seat. A series of complex emotions flicker across the kid's features, and when Gil's sure he'd about to flip him off and take off running, he smiles.

_O - K - A - Y_

And after a pause, Gil’s heart soaring in his chest:

_I - T - R - U - S - T - Y - O - U - G - I - L_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- crossdressing**
> 
> Alright, fam! Another one bites the dust, and the next one up is going to get... _interesting_ to say the least. 😏 I hope you'll consider leaving me a comment because I swear, they all make me smile!
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys! 1200+ hits and over 100 kudos? On my first fanfiction?? You are all so wonderful, and I really appreciate you for taking the time to read this crazy beast of mine.
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> An extra special thank you to my beta, [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa), for hitting me with their medical knowledge for this chapter on top of the usual edits!

Gil’s heartbeat hammers against his sternum, matching beat-for-beat the tempo of Bright’s fingers on his bare thigh. What the hell had he been thinking? Logically, he knows he'd have hated himself for sending the kid into a sleazy motel after everything, but inviting him into his private life—not to mention Jackie’s—can only serve to exacerbate the thoughts swirling around his head. In the few short minutes since he’d made the damning decision, half a dozen scenarios had already crossed his mind: Bright seated at the breakfast bar, curled up on the couch the way Jackie always does, miles of pale skin spread out across gray satin sheets—

“Damn it,” he hisses, smacking the steering wheel.

Bright recoils, and he watches with dismay as one tremoring hand stretches toward him. In the end, the kid lowers it before it connects, which is for the probably best considering the cause of his outburst; some part of him mourns the missed opportunity for contact, regardless. He keeps his jaw clamped shut throughout the remainder of the drive, but he can’t quite keep his focus on the road, darting furtive glances over every few seconds. Curiosity radiates off of Bright as he takes in Kensington, the green of foliage along the boulevard reflecting in his irises. It’s like he’s never seen a suburb before this very moment, and Gil’s heart constricts.

When he pulls into the driveway, the kid leaps from the car before the engine dies, tilting his head back immediately to admire the exterior of the house, hand shielding his face against the midday sun. Minutes tick by as he takes in every detail, attention flitting from the bay window to the English ivy-twined trellis to the flowerbeds, where Jackie had spent all summer cultivating coral bells, coneflowers, and catmint. Bright’s posture is loose and soft for the first time since they'd met. Gil can hear the smile in his own voice when he says, “Did you want to keep staring at it, or can we go in now?”

Bright whips his head around, as though in the time it had taken him to get out of the car, he’d forgotten about his companion entirely. When he snaps out of it, he grins and skips over to the porch, narrow hips swaying hypnotically. Christ, Arroyo, get a grip, Gil berates himself as he follows, forcing himself to ignore shapely legs and the sharp stain of purple bruising. He unlocks the door and beelines for the kitchen, shedding his jacket along the way, tossing it and his keys onto the counter. After a few minutes alone, he feels fairly confident he can maintain some modicum of professionalism, so he straightens, draws a deep breath, and heads back into the living room.

Nestled in a corner between the wall-mounted TV and a snake plant Jackie bought for their first anniversary, a collection of photos hangs from the wall in a cluster. Bright stands before them, barefoot—after a moment of searching, Gil spots his sandals arranged neatly by the doormat—with his fingers laced behind his back, head cocked. He peers longingly at each frame, inching closer and closer until his breath fogs up the glass with every exhale, something like awe coloring his gaze. Underfoot, a floorboard creaks, snapping the kid out of his reverie, and he turns, pointing back at one of the pictures.

_Y - O - U - R - W - I - F - E_

Gil eyes the particular photo he’s indicating—a still of Jackie smearing frosting on the end of his nose on their wedding day—and nods.

Bright smiles then spreads his fingers wide and swipes his hand across his face, pinching them all together at his chin. _W - H - E - R - E - I - S - S - H - E_

“Today’s her twelve-hour rotation at work. We won’t be seeing her for another,” he checks his watch, “eight hours or so. That gives me time to get you something to eat, or you could rest a bit, maybe.” Looking him up and down, he adds, “Or shower, if you’d like.”

Perking up at the mention of a shower, Bright rubs his open hand in a circle over his sternum, “please,” if he’s picked it up correctly. With a jerk of his head, Gil leads the way to the second floor, stopping just outside the doorway to the guest bathroom. “Feel free to use any of the toiletries or towels. I’ll leave a change of clothes just outside the door for you.” Neither of them moves, so he awkwardly clears his throat and says, “Just text if you need anything.”

Smiling, Bright slips past him and pushes the door closed behind him with a soft click. Without meaning to, Gil lingers by the door until the faucet roars to life and the faint sound of rustling fabric drifts out. He does a full one-eighty and hightails it into the master bedroom, yanking open the bottom drawer of the dresser and blindly grabbing a pair of boxers, some sweatpants, and a t-shirt. He deposits them by the bathroom door—all the while screaming at himself to ignore the fact that the kid is naked, dripping wet less than ten feet away—before racing back down to the kitchen and snatching up his phone.

## Jackie

####  **Today** , 11:42 AM

Gil
    Something happened at work. I’m fine, don’t worry. You’ll see when you get home.

The next fifteen minutes pass in a daze, water pelting the tile floor above him providing consistent white noise to drown out his musings. A loud clunk and a painful squeal through the piping signal the shower switching off. He wanders into the living room, refolding the already meticulously-folded throw blanket to keep his mind occupied. While he’s obsessively realigning Jackie's book with the edges of the coffee table, a hand closes around his forearm. The adrenaline coursing through his body spurs him into action. In a seamless motion, he wrenches his arm free and seizes his assailant’s wrist, twisting it and locking their arm at the elbow behind their back. His other hand swings around, preparing to slam them down over the table, but a sharp hiss of pain snaps him out of it.

“Shit, Bright,” he gasps, ripping his hands away like they’ve been burned, and stumbles back a pace. “I didn’t—oh god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Fingers massaging at his shoulder, Bright turns toward him, unshed tears sparkling in stark contrast to the grin on his lips. Before Gil has a chance to question the kid’s sanity—or apologize again—he lifts his free hand and signs: _M - Y - B - A - D_

“Your—” His incredulous retort dries up along with all the moisture in his mouth. Now, as agitation bleeds out of him, his lizard brain floods the void it leaves behind with an intensified version of the tension that’s ridden him all morning.

Bright's damp hair is near-black and slicked back from his face, except for a few strands that fell free during their altercation, tickling at his brow and leaking droplets of water down onto his face. It’s apparent he’d never actually seen the kid makeup-free before because he definitely would have noticed the scattering of freckles and the rosiness of his cheeks. Somehow, the little imperfections only add to his appeal. Up close, the skin of his lips looks dry, cold-cracked and peeling, and they seem infinitely more kissable— _not helping_ —than they had while perfectly painted. He feels like he’s seeing Bright for the first time, and none of his many faces can hold a candle to the real thing.

Swallowing hard, Gil picks up where he’d left off. “Not exactly _your_ bad, kid. I could’ve really hurt you.”

With a roll of his eyes and a dismissive shrug, Bright starts to spell something before giving up and making a writing motion.

“Right,” he says and sets to searching for scrap paper, eventually snagging the miniature notebook Jackie uses to compile grocery lists and digging around in the junk drawer for a usable pen. When he wanders back to the couch, realization smacks him in the face that, in his haste, he’d grabbed the same police academy tee Jackie likes to borrow, as over-large on Bright's frame as it is on hers, exposing most of his shoulders and one chiseled collarbone. The sweatpants hang loose around his waist despite the way he’s folded the waistband over and tied the drawstrings tight as they’ll go, bare feet poking out from under rolled-up cuffs.

He hands both the pen and the notebook over, trying not to stare anymore than he already has, then crumples onto the sofa.

Bright stands a minute longer, furiously scratching out a message before joining him.

_I should’ve known better than to sneak up on a trained officer. I should be thanking you for stopping when you did. Anyway, what’s on the agenda until your wife comes home? Something fun, I hope._

Thankful for the change in topic—though he could do without the innuendo—Gil hums. “Not really. I could make you something to eat, if you’re hungry? Or get you something to drink?”

He probably shouldn’t find the way the kid’s nose scrunches up as cute as he does. _Most food makes me sick. Water’s not a bad idea, though._

When was the last time you ate, Gil thinks but holds off asking. Pushing back to his feet, Gil says, instead, “I need to work on my report for a bit, so feel free to grab a book or browse what’s on TV.” He pulls open a cabinet and reaches first for one of his old whiskey tumblers before grabbing the oversized Gouverneur Health thermos Jackie got with her ten-year service award instead. When he gets back, Bright has one leg tucked underneath him, and he’s practically vibrating as he accepts the water and raises the notebook.

_Have you gotten anywhere with the case?_

“Oh, no,” he chides. “You know I can’t talk to you about that.”

Bright’s lower lip disappears behind his teeth for a moment, reemerging reddened and tender, tongue chasing it. _What if I could share beneficial information regarding the case? Could you talk to me about it then?_

Gil reads the words, buzzing with the knowledge that the reward for all his patience might finally be within reach, but a twinge of unease creeps in. “If you have information about the murders, I recommend you disclose it.”

Bright narrows his eyes and arches a brow. _Just out of the goodness of my heart? That doesn’t seem very fair._

Couldn’t make things easy for me, could you? “How about this, kid? For every question you answer honestly, you can ask me one. Deal?”

A weary expression overtakes Bright’s face as he repeats the two signs he’d done in the interrogation room, but he doesn’t look up from his lap. Just when Gil’s about to call it quits, suggest they laugh it off, and check out day-time television instead, the kid raises his eyes and gives a tiny nod.

His heart skips a beat then restarts double time, a thousand questions springing to mind. He weighs each deliberately before asking, “How old are you?”

Bright blinks, caught off-guard by the innocuous query when he’d clearly expected the Inquisition, then smirks. _Old enough._

“No,” Gil warns, deadly serious. “I want the truth, or the deal’s off.”

The coy persona drops away. _Twenty-two._

Thank god, is his first awful thought, relief that he hasn’t been lusting after a teenager briefly outweighing his disgust at himself. “Your turn.”

Tilting his head, Bright scribbles: _How old are you?_

He only hopes he keeps his wince internal. “I’m forty-three.” Bright doesn’t react, his expression perfectly blank, and no matter how hard he tries, Gil can’t penetrate the apparent apathy. “How long have you been in your current line of work?”

 _You aren’t going to like the answer._ He flicks his gaze up from the page, and when greeted by steely resolve, shrugs. _Six years._

The image pops to mind of a softer, ganglier Bright forced to play dress up for perverted business-types with too much money and not nearly enough scruples. Gil has to close his eyes, chomping hard at the inside of his cheek. When he reopens them, a new question stares back at him.

_Do you have any new leads on the case?_

No more pulling punches, eh, he thinks, watching the kid’s face carefully, fully aware that his every reaction is being scrutinized and analyzed. “Not even one.” Disappointment flickers across Bright’s face. “Do you know who the killer is?”

A muscle in Bright’s jaw tenses, but rather than rejoice at the cracks forming around the edges of his mask, Gil dreads what it could mean. _I have a few theories, but I’m not sure of anything yet._

Goosebumps pimple his arms, chest, and all the way down to his ankles, an ice-cold sweat breaking out in their wake. Without giving him time to recover, Bright writes: _Did you find the same drug in Jake’s system as all the others?_

How do you know about that? He barely withholds the question. “Some of the circumstances surrounding his murder were consistent with the others, but that’s the most I can really say about it, kid.” Bright frowns, but he doesn’t argue. “Are you in danger?”

A bitter smile carves a path across his mouth, thinning his lips, and a frosty veneer dims his eyes. _Always. How did you get one of the best attorneys in New York to take my case pro bono? Did she owe you a favor?_

"That's two questions." He has to drag his thoughts away from the admission to suppress the fear that bubbles up in response. “No, but the Whitlys did,” he replies absently, and before he can fire off with any of the questions prickling the back of his tongue, Bright jerks back violently, face draining of color. His hands begin to shake. Gil frowns. “How do you know the Whitlys?”

The kid shudders, head twitching back and forth a few times, but he makes no other move to answer.

He can feel the shift down to his bones, the way Bright morphs to prey like a rabbit caught in a snare, and the sudden change leaves him reeling. “If you don’t answer, that’s game over, kid.”

With a flash of teeth that’s more grimace than he probably intended, Bright scrawls, _You’re good, Detective. I’m afraid I have to concede,_ and lets the pen and notebook slip from his hands.

Before he can try and salvage the situation, Bright leans over to grab the TV remote, clicking it to life. The volume blares loud, but Bright makes no move to turn it down, keeping his face resolutely aimed at the screen, fingers fisted on his knees to try and disguise the way they tremble. Swallowing hard, he says, “Alright, kid. I’ll be up in my office, second door on the right if you need me,” and flees up the stairs.

There, in a pile on the floor by the bathroom, lie his boxers.

  


* * *

  


The sound of the front door opening snaps Gil from his laser-targeted fixation on his computer screen, bleary eyelids blinking away the sticky film of mucus that congealed on his sclera since—he checks the clock, startled to find that he’d been at it for almost three hours.

“Gil?” Jackie’s worried voice calls from the entryway, and he’s out of his seat and halfway down the stairs before she continues. “I got your message, what happ—”

“I told you not to worry,” he says, knowing the second he spies the direction of her confused stare exactly what stopped her short. “Why are you home so early?”

She doesn’t acknowledge him right away. “You shouldn’t have expected anything else, sending me a text like that. Is that…?” she starts to ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He follows her gaze, nearly choking on a breath. “Yeah, that’s Bright.”

The kid sprawls along the cushions on his back, one arm pillowed under his head, fast asleep. He’d turned the TV off at some point after Gil’s retreat, and with the shades drawn, darkness hangs over the room. As they watch, he snuffles softly, legs stretching out, and he starts to turn onto his side, stopping when the motion jostles his ribs.

A grin tugs at the corners of Jackie’s mouth when she finally glances over at Gil. “About damn time.”

“He’s hurt, Jackie,” he says softly. “Pretty badly, though he’ll try to convince you otherwise.”

She sobers at that, still for a moment before turning on her heel to hang her purse from one of the coat hangers. Flicking on the light, she marches right up to the sleeping form on the couch. “Wake up, babe,” she leans close to whisper, patting Bright’s arm. In a split second, he shoots up onto his elbows, scrambling back away from her until he nearly tumbles to the floor. Jackie, cool as ever despite the sudden movement, murmurs, “Shh, it’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you.”

The kid gapes up at her until something seems to click, and he deflates with a huff. Shaking fingers sign: _N - I - C- E - T - O - M - E - E - T - Y - O - U - J - A - C - K - I - E_

She smiles and surprises both men by lifting one hand, palm face up, and sliding her other along it. Both hands ball into fists, index fingers extended up, and she brings them together. Then, she points at Bright, making the ASL “Y” with her other hand and waggling it back and forth between them.

Bright lights up like a child on Christmas morning, but before he can respond, Jackie shakes her head. “Slow down there, Tex, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First, you need to tell me where you're hurt.”

One corner of the kid’s mouth pulls back, a reproachful glare sent Gil’s way. He points to himself then splays his fingers, palm down, and pokes himself in the chest a few times with his thumb.

Jackie arches an unamused brow. “I’ll let it slide this time since you’re new around here, but the number one rule in this house is _never_ lie to me,” she says, gently cupping his cheek. “Just let me see, okay?”

He smothers a chuckle at the kid’s flabbergasted look, noting the redness crawling up the back of his neck and ears. Recognizing the unwinnable fight for what it is, Bright grabs the hem of the tee and yanks it over his head, unable to hide a flinch. The wound spreads along his front, as well, as it turns out, blanketing the entire left side of his torso in mottled bruises. If not for Jackie’s composure, Gil might have lost his own.

“That looks pretty fresh. How long ago did this happen?”

Bright swipes a hand back over his shoulder. Then, he holds one arm parallel to the floor, placing the elbow of his other arm on his extended fingertips. Finally, holding up his middle finger, index finger, and thumb, he waves that arm in an arc until they’re lying on top of each other.

Jackie hums thoughtfully before saying, “Gil, can you go grab the first aid kit out of the closet?”

He has to move the shoe rack out of the way, but he manages to get the massive case out and back down the stairs within a minute. When he reenters the living room, Bright has his left arm raised while Jackie feels along his ribs, hissing through his teeth whenever she presses too hard. He steps into her periphery, and without looking up, she points to the coffee table. “Thanks, love. Can you go get my stethoscope out of my purse, too?”

Gil walks to the entryway and back, passing it over with a cheeky, “Here you are, Doctor Arroyo.”

“Smartass,” she snarks back, inserting the earpieces and gripping the drum between her fingers before placing it under Bright’s left collarbone. “Take a deep breath for me.”

She repeats the process three more times, once over the worst of the bruising and twice on his back, before removing the stethoscope and wrapping it around her neck. With gentle tugs, she tests his range of motion, lifting and rotating his arms as far as they will go. “It doesn’t sound like your lungs have been damaged, which is good, and neither has any of the cartilage. On a scale of one-to-ten, how would you rank your pain? And remember,” she points a warning finger at him, “the golden rule.”

Sufficiently cowed, the kid holds up a hand, ring finger and thumb conjoined over his palm while the others are spread.

Jackie nods. “Well, without an MRI or a CT scan, I can’t say for sure if any of your ribs are fractured, but there are no full breaks. My guess is you have some moderate contusions, so I’d recommend you take it easy for a while. Some painkillers wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Even as she says the words, Gil’s already pulling out some acetaminophen tablets out of the kit. Jackie holds them up for Bright, showing the unopened packaging before handing them over. The kid’s lips curve up as he tears into the packet and downs the pills with a gulp of water, following with a signed thank you. She helps him back into his t-shirt, and he slumps forward a little once they’re done, skin sallow except for the dark circles around his eyes.

They share a glance over the kid’s head, and Jackie says, “We have a guest bedroom upstairs. Why don’t you go get some rest?”

Fight drained out of him, Bright just nods drowsily and gets to his feet, swaying in place until Gil loops an arm around his shoulders. “Can you walk, kid?” he asks, trying not to notice the feel of the warm body pressed up against him, but the knowing way Jackie’s watching them proves him unsuccessful.

Bright nods, nuzzling into his sweater as his arms lock around Gil’s waist. Together, they make their way, shambling and lethargic, up to the guest room, where the kid flops onto the bed immediately, dead to the world before his head makes contact with the pillow. Gil can’t quite contain a smile as he pulls a blanket out of the closet to toss over him before easing the door shut and rejoining Jackie.

As he sits down beside her, she snuggles in close, tucking into his side with her nose nestled against his jaw. Against the delicate skin, he can feel her grin. “That boy’s got it bad for you, love.”

He closes his eyes, savoring the steady breaths beside his ear. “You think so?”

“I _know_ so,” she says, tilting her head to whisper in his ear, “just like I know you’ve got it bad for him, too.”

He turns toward her, nudging her head off his shoulder, and meets her heated stare. “You’re right, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

She tips forward and slots their lips together, and into their kiss, she whispers, “How about we keep him?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **-mild depiction of injury**   
>  **-mild implied/referenced underage (mentioned in passing, not at all explicit)**
> 
> _They have all finally met._ Hopefully, you all enjoyed this chapter, and if you did, please consider leaving me a comment to let me know! I appreciate every, single one more than you probably realize. See you all in the next one!
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again at the Krispy Kreme, my friends!
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> Our own [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa) once again helped make this chapter comprehensible! Please go check out their work because it's all top notch.

_Is the killer the one abusing Bright? If so, why hasn’t he killed him yet?_

A groan sneaks past Gil’s pursed lips, and he rolls onto his back, sheets clinging to his clammy skin before he tosses them away. Clenching every muscle from his biceps to his hamstrings, he draws a deep breath, falling limp on the exhale. After what had been nearly an hour of restlessness, he finally starts to drift again until—

_Maybe it was one of his regular clients. Is this normal for him?_

His eyes fly open, breath catching in his throat. The blood racing through his veins roars in his ears. For what may be a few minutes or a few hours, he stares up at the red glow the alarm clock paints across the ceiling, fighting for control of his erratic breathing. From Jackie’s side of the bed, a notification light pulses blue on her phone, and the rhythm of it combined with her steady breathing lull him back into a stupor. His eyelids slowly droop until they fall closed entirely, blessed darkness overtaking him.

_Bright left the boxers on the floor, which means he never put them on, which means he’s nak—_

“Shit,” he hisses, flinging his legs over the edge of the bed, the heels of his palms slamming into his eyes and rubbing hard to try and buff away the knowledge that, of all of them, that last thought affects him most.

“You know,” comes Jackie’s scruffy voice from over his shoulder, “I’m surprised you haven’t woken the entire neighborhood with all those loud thoughts you’re broadcasting. They’ve probably reached Jersey, at this rate.”

Gil turns back toward her. “I’m sorry. Don’t worry about it, okay? Go back to sleep.”

With a snort, she sidles up behind him and snakes one arm around his waist and the other around his chest. “Only if you come back with me.”

“I can’t,” he sighs and attempts to wriggle out of her hold. “I’ve already been awake for over an hour, and there’s no point sitting here in the dark when I could be doing something useful.”

A hum vibrates where her mouth is pressed against the nape of his neck. “So, you’re going to go down and stare at that damn case file at four o’clock in the morning, then? I don’t think so.” The arms around him tighten, one hand lazily patting his chest. “Spill. What’s got you so riled up, love?”

Something like shame heats his cheeks, and he’s never been more grateful for the cover of darkness. “I can’t stop thinking about the case, and—”

A finger slides over his lips until he reluctantly closes his mouth. “Number one rule, Gil. I already know what you’re trying so hard to hide from me. What I can’t figure out is why.”

“I—” he fishes around his head for an out, something he can say to avoid the damning truth. “I can’t stop thinking about Bright, okay? He’s too close to this investigation, and it’s going to get him killed, if he keeps going like this.”

“That’s strike two,” she chides, plastering herself more firmly against his back, spreading her legs around his. “You were worried about Bright getting himself into trouble last week, and it didn’t keep you up all night. _Talk to me._ ”

Hanging his head, Gil finally surrenders, and the words locked up tight in the confines of his skull for days slip out on a whisper: “I want him. I want him, Jackie, and I shouldn’t.”

Spit-damp lips connect with his shoulder. “Why in the world shouldn’t you? We’ve talked about this, remember? Even though we haven’t invited anyone into our bed since we got married, it doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about it. I trust you, Gil.”

He’s shaking his head before she finishes, though it strikes a chord when he recalls slim fingers spelling out those same words. “I’m not—that’s not what’s bothering me, baby,” he murmurs as he grabs a hold of her hand on his chest and brings it to his lips. “Bright and I talked before you got home. A lot, actually, and as it turns out, the list of reasons I shouldn’t do anything about this… _this_ got a little longer. He’s only twenty-two, for Christ's sake. I’m nearly twice his age, not to mention he’s currently the primary suspect in a murder investigation. Shannon would have me off this case in a heartbeat if he even suspected any of this.”

“First of all,” comes the growl right into his ear, “Shannon is a rat bastard whose opinions and prejudice should never factor into your sex life. Period,” she adds when he starts to interrupt. “Second, while I understand your concerns about his age, Bright is old enough to decide who he sleeps with for himself. And third, I appreciate how dedicated you are to your work, love, but if you try to use that damn case as an excuse one more time, I will kick your ass. Got it?”

Despite himself, Gil feels a laugh building behind his ribs, but as he twists around to respond, a loud crash rings out from somewhere beyond the bedroom door. They both spring into action, breaking apart as he surges to his feet and reaches blindly into the nightstand for his gun while she clicks on the bedside lamp. Carefully, he advances on the door, Jackie rummaging around for the golf club they hid under the bed on her side. Just as he grabs the knob, there’s another sound—a solid thump, like a body crumpling to the floor—coming from the direction of the guest room, and his heart jumps into his throat.

“Bright?” Gil calls as he steps into the hall and pads swiftly along it, pausing to listen through the door to the scratching and banging emanating from the other side before wrenching it open and flicking on the lights.

At first, the room appears still, and the only sign that anything has gone awry is the rucked up duvet on the bed. Gun held at the ready, he inches forward, pieing the corner where the closet juts out until he can see around it, but he finds nothing. Not, at least, until he nears the sliding doors and something slams into them from the inside. Only his many years in the field counter the instinctive urge to recoil, steadying his fingers as he tucks them into the gap between the frame and the door before pushing it open wide.

In the corner, wedged between the wall and a stack of bins containing old Christmas decorations, Bright huddles with his face against his knees, left arm waving wildly before him while the other wraps around his legs, which twitch like they want to kick out. One of the vases they’d been gifted at their wedding lies in pieces on the floor.

“Jackie, I need you in here,” he shouts through the door as he clicks on the safety, sets his gun off to one side, and kneels. His voice drops to a soothing timbre. “Bright, are you okay?”

The poor kid doesn’t seem to hear him, just quakes while his outstretched arm alternates between slamming into the bins and the wall. Gil is at a loss. His instincts scream at him to grab the flailing limb, to pin it until he calms down, but if Bright’s having some kind of episode, the last thing he wants to do is make it worse. Rapid footsteps approach from the hall, padding along the carpet until they stop right behind him. He tries a few more times to get the kid’s attention.

“He’s having a night terror,” Jackie says without hesitation, and the tension bleeds out of her in a rush, the club thunking to the floor as her arms fall loose. “It’s a nightmare, a bad one, but he’ll snap out of it on his own. We need to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself in the meantime, so don’t let him up. I’ll go get the broom to clean up the mess.”

When she disappears into the hall again, Gil’s attention flips back to the quivering form in the closet, and for a lack of any better ideas, he continues to speak in placid tones, throwing out every reassurance that comes to mind. Even when Jackie returns and starts sweeping up the porcelain shards scattered across the floor, his focus never wavers. Soon, her voice joins his in coaxing the kid back to awareness.

Eventually, Bright’s arm falls away, and his head lifts from his knees, wide eyes shimmering with tears. When no one makes a move, Gil raises a hand and cautiously grips his shin.

“Are you with us, kid?”

He starts to wonder if he’s going to get a response, if maybe the nightmare hasn’t quite passed, when Bright meets his gaze and gives a shaky nod. He balls one hand into a fist save his pointer finger and thumb, which he pinches together then swipes over the flattened palm of the other.

“You got it, babe,” Jackie says and gives Gil’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”

After she takes off, he stands and holds out a hand. “Let’s get you out of there. Watch your step,” Gil warns when as he helps Bright up, “there might still be a few shards of that old vase in the carpet.”

Rather than try and navigate the potential minefield in front of the closet, the kid leaps straight over it, stumbling a bit when his feet try to slide out from under him. Gil suddenly finds himself with an armful of shaky, sweaty Bright, whose sinewy muscles flex under the damp t-shirt on his back. He tries to ignore the perfect way that slender waist fits into his grasp; it’s impossible, however, not to notice the way the kid’s pupils swell when he notices their positions. Rather than backing away, he buries his nose in Gil’s chest and nuzzles against his bare skin.

“Okay, I got you—” Jackie freezes in the doorway when she spots them, and a grin spreads across her face, eyebrows climbing her forehead. She gives him a thumbs up and a wink. “I got you a pen and some paper, babe.”

That gets Bright’s attention, and he spins around in an instant, snatching both out of Jackie’s hands and racing over to the bed, Gil left breathless in his wake. For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the scratch of the pen flying across the paper, whatever he needs to write easily using up two pages before he slows, head dipping forward every few seconds before he shakes himself out of it. His lips part, slackening along with the rest of his body as exhaustion starts to win out against the manic energy demanding he document whatever horror lingers in his head. Finally, when he hasn’t managed to write a single word in a full sixty seconds, Gil gently pulls the pen and notebook from his loose hold.

“Hey, I think it’s time to get you back in bed, kid.”

When he twists to place both on the nightstand, he catches sight of a few words that immediately put him on edge—in his experience, the involvement of chloroform can't mean anything good. Whatever his face does in response to what he read tips Jackie off that something’s wrong, and she sidles up beside him and eases the half-asleep kid back onto the mattress, tucking the blankets up around his body. Then, with a hand at his elbow, she pulls Gil to the doorway, stooping down to grab his gun off the floor before moving into the hall, closing the door, and turning back to him with a concerned look.

“What is it? What did he write?” she asks while crowding up against his side to read for herself.

Which is for the best, really, since he wouldn’t have had the mental faculties to answer her. In a sloppy scrawl, Bright detailed a disturbing scene that feels far too real to be simply the imaginings of a sleep-addled mind. The words depict a boy making his way through a darkened basement in search of his father. At the end of a long hallway, he spots a steamer trunk that fills him with dread, but he continues toward it, nonetheless. When he pops the clasps holding it closed and hefts open the lid, he shrieks because, lying curled in the trunk, is a naked, unconscious woman. Before he has a chance to run, a pair of strong arms curl around his body, lifting him clean off the floor, and a sweet-smelling cloth smothers his mouth and nose. Bright had trailed off while searching for the words to describe how the chloroform tasted.

Jackie sucks in a gasp, fingers flexing over her mouth when she reaches the end. “It’s so... specific. Do you think… do you think this actually happened to him?”

“I really don’t know, Jackie,” he croaks.

When neither of them can stand to look at it anymore, he flips the notebook closed.

* * *

From the moment he reopens his eyes and the world comes into view, Gil knows something’s off. He blinks away the remnants of his foul dream and scans the room. Finally, he sees the notebook he’d tossed on the nightstand before seeking comfort in Jackie’s embrace. Unlike how he’d left it, it lies open, and in the dark, he can barely make out a message written on the foremost page.

> _Sorry for waking you both and for breaking your vase, but let’s be honest, that wasn’t any great loss, was it? Please let Jackie know it really was wonderful to meet her. I hope to do it again soon. Thank you, Gil. For letting me stay, for talking me down last night, for everything._
> 
> _XOXO_
> 
> _B_

“No,” he says louder than he means to, and Jackie jerks awake beside him. Before she can ask him about it, he’s on his feet, darting out of the room and up the hall with the notebook still clutched in his hands.

The guest bed has been made, pillows all fluffed and aligned, and the only indication that anyone was there at all are the clothes folded neatly on the end of the bed. Cursing, he spins around and takes the stairs two at a time, but there’s no sign of Bright in the living room, either, sandals absent from where they’d lain beside the doormat.

“Gil?” Jackie’s voice carries from the top of the stairs. “What’s wrong?”

Unable to wrangle his swirling thoughts enough to speak, he looks back at Bright’s note then checks the pages just after it, only realizing as he swipes back that the kid had somehow crept into their room and torn out the transcript of his nightmare while they'd slept.

He startles when a soft hand glides across the back of his neck. “Love, what’s going on?”

“He’s gone,” Gil says, the crushing weight of reality knocking him right in the gut. “Bright left.”

Sighing, Jackie encircles his middle with her arms and moves in close. “I can’t say I’m surprised he ran off. Have you tried texting him?”

He twirls on his heel, plants a quick kiss on her lips, then says, "God, where would I be without you, Jackie?”

“Lost, apparently,” her amused reply follows him on his way back up to their bedroom.

Nearly dropping it in his haste, Gil picks up his phone and brings up his messages.

## Bright

####  **Nov 13, 2010** , 6:31 AM

Bright
    1230 York Ave, Rockefeller University.
    Please, Gil. Hurry.

Gil
    What’s going on, Bright?

####  **Today** , 7:34 AM

Gil
    Why did you take off so fast, kid? Is everything okay?

Ten minutes pass with nothing but the sound of Jackie rummaging around in the kitchen to prove that time hasn’t frozen, even though it feels that way. When he admits defeat and acknowledges that he isn’t going to get a response for now, he backs out of his conversation with Bright, eyes snagging on the thread just below it. After a second, he brings that one up.

## JT

####  **Nov 13, 2010** , 7:41 AM

JT
    i kno u dont think that bright kid did anything so u need to get him outta there ASAP

####  **Today** , 7:45 AM

Gil
    I need you to send me a picture of Bright’s mugshot ASAP.

Jackie appears in the doorway, silk robe wrapped around her as she props herself against the jamb. “Did you reach him?”

“Not exactly,” he says while he strips out of his sweatpants, “but I have an idea.”

* * *

Even with all the years separating him from his foray into the Whitly house, it feels like only yesterday that Gil crossed this same threshold, the luxurious space beyond tarnished by the nature of his visit. The fact that he’s making his reappearance on another missing persons case isn't lost on him.

“Gil, it’s been so long,” Jessica cries as she pulls him into a warm hug, fingers clenching in his jacket before she leans back to meet his gaze. “What brings you? Is everything all right?”

Descending the stairwell, Martin smiles tightly as he closes the distance between them, holding out a hand to shake. “Well, Detective, I must say it’s a surprise to see you again, and so early to boot. We were just about to sit down for breakfast.” Despite his friendly demeanor, there’s something sharp in his tone, annoyance or maybe discomfort, Gil can’t be sure.

“Good morning, Dr. Whitly. Jessica,” he says, accepting Martin’s hand and nodding between the two of them to buy himself a moment to rehearse his story in his head. “This won’t take long. As you’re probably aware, my unit’s been working a serial murder case here on the Upper East Side. We’re looking for a person of interest who fell off the radar this morning. We have reason to believe he may have,” he rolls the word around his mouth, _“connections_ to the Whitly family. I’m hoping you can help me find him.”

“Connections to—what possible connection could we have with a murder suspect?” Jess asks with narrowed eyes, and he knows he needs to tread lightly.

“I can assure you, Jessica, he's not a suspect. Tell me, do you recognize this man?” Gil pulls his phone from his pocket, bringing up the mugshot JT had sent him.

She takes the phone, frowning down at the screen for a moment before shaking her head. “I don’t, but, Gil... isn't this the boy you told me about yesterday?”

“It is,” he replies, but his focus has shifted to Martin, who, upon seeing the photo, had gone rigid. A quirk still curves the corners of his mouth, but it’s tightened in an unnatural way, contorting his face into a poor likeness of affability. As he continues to stare at the photo, his pupils flutter a couple times then dilate. “Do you know him, Dr. Whitly?”

“Hmm, I don’t believe I do,” Martin fires back easily, none of the strain in his body language carrying over into his voice.

“Are you sure? Could he have been a patient of yours, maybe even accompanied a patient to your office?”

“I have an excellent memory, Detective, and I think I’d remember such striking features,” Martin says, eyeing the photo again with an appraising look. “And if you think this boy is linked to those _gruesome_ murders all the news stations keep going on about, I can’t say I’d like to.”

“Gil, did something happen to him after he was released?” Jessica presses, ignoring her husband as she hands his phone back.

He trains what he hopes is a convincing smile on her. “Not that we know of, no, but we need to ask him some follow-up questions.”

Some of the apprehension drains out of her, but Martin only tenses further. “What gave you the impression he was connected to our family, Detective? Should we be worried?”

“Not at all, Dr. Whitly,” he assures, bypassing the first question entirely as his eyes rove all over Martin’s frame, absorbing every minute shift in his expression, his posture. “Rest assured, he’s only a person of interest. If he’d given us any reason to believe he was dangerous, we wouldn’t have released him. Anyway, if either of you remember anything, or if you happen to see him anywhere, please give me a call.”

“Of course. I’ll have Eve reach out—” Jess starts before Martin cuts her off.

“If that’s all, Detective, as I said, we were about to sit down for breakfast, and we really should be getting back to it. Wouldn't want the tea getting cold.” His icy eyes don’t warm when he smiles.

“Of course. Enjoy the rest of your morning,” he says, noting the knit of Jessica’s brow as she shoots a disapproving look Martin’s way. He turns to leave, trying to process everything while the picture of Bright’s tense shoulders and shivering hands, the pervasive fear that overcame him at the mere mention of the Whitlys springs to the forefront of this thoughts. His mind races, forming theories between blinks, each more sinister and outlandish than the last, until one crops up that’s both plausible and terrible in one.

_What if Martin Whitly is one of Bright’s clients?_

As it crosses his mind, a swarm of images follow—Martin’s hands gliding over pale skin, hiking up the hem of a little black dress and toying with a fringe of red lace, his fingertips leaving bruises on slim hips. By the time he climbs back into his car, Gil has to press the knuckles of his clenched fist into his mouth to hold back the howl of rage demanding to be released. Now that the floodgates have opened, though, nothing he does can prevent the wave of fury that washes over him, blinding in its intensity.

 _What if Martin Whitly is_ the _client?_

This time, he can’t contain a snarl, thrown into the memory of Bright’s face twisting in pain while Jackie assessed his injuries, and he starts the car and zips away up the road before he has a chance to unleash hell, driven more by the desire to spare Jessica his ire than the doctor. When he pulls up in front of his house, Gil idles a minute, staring hard at the front door, heart refusing to settle. His anger eventually melts away to fear, and he tilts forward into the steering wheel, clenching his eyes closed.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Bright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- mild implications of incest (please note there will be no _actual_ incest in this story)**
> 
> And there you have it. I hope you all enjoyed this installment, and I'll see you all in the next one (I hope)!!
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, we are getting into the thick of things now, my friends. I'm flicking that "fasten seat belt" sign back on, so please make sure your tray tables are in the upright and locked positions. 😙🎶
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> Please give my wonderful beta, [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa), a lot of love because they are the best!

## Bright

####  **Nov 15, 2010** , 3:53 AM

Bright
    Did I scare you, Gil? Sorry about that, but you know how it is when duty calls.

####  **Nov 15, 2010** , 7:01 AM

Gil
    You scared both of us, kid. Are you okay?

Bright
    Never better. 😉

Gil
    Jackie says you need to take it easy so your ribs can heal.

####  **Nov 15, 2010** , 9:34 AM

Gil
    If you ever need a place to stay, our guest room is always open to you.

####  **Nov 15, 2010** , 12:52 PM

Gil
    You are taking it easy, right?

####  **Nov 15, 2010** , 4:56 PM

Gil
    Bright?

####  **Nov 16, 2010** , 1:47 AM

Bright
    Have I mentioned how amazing throwing axes are?
    Remind me to bring a couple with me next time I come over.
    I bet Jackie will outthrow us both.

####  **Nov 16, 2010** , 3:23 AM

Bright
    He’s going to kill her, Gil, and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. I want you to know I tried.

####  **Nov 16, 2010** , 6:31 AM

Gil
    We found the body. Bright, are you okay?
    You’ve got to tell me if you’re all right.

####  **Nov 16, 2010** , 2:01 PM

Gil
    Come on, kid.

####  **Nov 16, 2010** , 11:24 PM

Bright
    I’m trying.

####  **Nov 17, 2010** , 9:30 AM

Gil
    You knew that girl was going to be killed. How?
    Exactly how close are you to the killer?

####  **Nov 17, 2010** , 12:41 PM

Gil
    I just want to know if you’re in danger.

####  **Nov 17, 2010** , 6:57 PM

Gil
    I need to know you’re safe, Bright.

####  **Nov 18, 2010** , 1:01 PM

Gil
    Please.

“Man, if you stare at that thing any harder, it’s gonna burst into flames,” his partner grumbles from the desk across from his, precinct-famous humorlessness stretched over his features.

Gil hangs his head low as he swallows disappointment and fear. “It’s been three days.”

JT huffs a sigh, wearily rubbing a palm across his scalp. “You’re worried about the kid, I get that, but sitting here stinking up the place with your gloomy bullshit isn’t helping anybody. He’ll talk to you when he’s ready to. That’s it. It’s out of your hands.” He gives an exaggerated wave of his empty hands to emphasize the point.

Gil glares. “Anyone ever tell you your pep talk could use a little work?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, shrugging his lips, “but if being irritated at me gets you to stop feeling sorry for yourself, that’s good enough for me. When was the last time you tried texting him, anyway?”

Glancing down at his phone screen, he says, “About twenty-four hours ago.”

“Look, man, it’s like I always say: shit or get off the pot.”

“You talk to your wife like that?” Gil mutters.

“You’re damn right I do, man, otherwise that woman would waste an hour every day primping when she’s already looking fine as hell.” JT smirks. “In the meantime, you wanna actually help me with this case or what?”

Rolling his eyes, Gil straightens, dumping his phone off to the side with a flick of his wrist. “By all means, explain to me what exactly it is you need my help with.”

“Well, while you were busy sulking,” his partner throws him a pointed look, “I poked into our vics a bit more. The one from the university campus—your boy called him ‘Vijay’—well, turns out that might not be an alias.”

He stiffens. “What makes you say that?”

JT’s smug expression rankles more than it probably should. “Seven years ago, Ambika Chandasara reported her sixteen-year-old son, Vijay, missing from their home in Greenwich. Check out the picture in the case file.”

When the monitor swings around, a picture of a teenage boy in a soccer jersey slaps him in the face. With a big smile on his face, he’s angled down so the tiny Indian woman—who Gil assumes is his mother—can loop an arm around his neck. Though years clearly separate them, Gil would have to be blind not to see the similarities between the boy in the photo and the mangled young man they’d found the week before, from his near-black almond eyes to the slanted line of his teeth.

“Shit.” He slumps back into his chair. “What does the file say about the disappearance?”

“Surprisingly little.” JT pulls the screen back toward himself and hammers away at his keyboard. “Apparently, his father had just been arrested, and the lead officer on the case thought Vijay was a runaway. According to the mother, though, kid was a bit of a worrywart, and he was extra protective of her after his old man got taken away. She insisted he wouldn’t have left her like that. Guy on lead disagreed, and the case was closed.”

“What? No one followed up?” Gil interjects with a furious scowl. “Since when do we label a missing persons case closed with no investigation?”

The slight pinch in his partner’s brow highlights how suspicious he, too, finds the circumstances. He leans in closer to the monitor. “This is—it doesn’t make sense.”

Gil pushes to his feet, circling their conjoined desks to look over JT’s shoulder, a cold apprehension lodged in his gut. “What doesn’t?”

“There’s no reporting officer on this thing,” JT mutters, distracted as he scrolls through pages of the report. “It’s been redacted.” He clicks around a bit, browsing a few different filing systems, eyebrows steadily creeping lower and lower. By the time he settles back in his chair, his eyes have narrowed to slits. “There isn’t a single record in the system of any of the officers who worked this case. It was open for less than than twenty four hours, only Mrs. Chandasara was ever questioned, and despite her son never turning up, they closed it.”

Sure enough, when Gil scans the documents on the screen, black bars block out every mention of the officers assigned to the case. “What the hell?” he murmurs, stealing the mouse from his partner’s hand to scroll along each report. Scrubbing a hand over his mouth, he asks, “Do we have contact information for the mother? She might remember something.”

JT snatches the mouse back. “Well, I got the address off her vehicle registration. She apparently never moved.”

Just as he opens his mouth to reply, Shannon wrenches the door to his office open and shouts across the bullpen. “Arroyo, Tarmel. Get your asses in here _now.”_

“Oh, wonderful,” JT mutters under his breath, rolling his shoulders back as he stands. They share a look before he raises both his eyebrows and waves Gil forward. “After you, man.”

Jaw clenched, he leads the way into the Lieutenant’s office, praising himself for remarkable restraint as he gently latches the door behind them. His partner hovers a couple feet back from Shannon’s desk, arms folded over his chest, stoic. “What can we do for you, sir?”

“When was the last time you heard from Bright?”

His eyes dart up before he can stop them, halfway to rolling before he's aware of it. “Not since the last time you asked, sir.”

“Don’t you get smart with me, Detective,” the Lieutenant growls with a fierce glare his direction. “Have you tried to reach him?”

“Every day,” Gil replies with a tight smile.

Shannon slams his fist into the top of the desk hard enough that it bounces. “What the hell was the point of getting his contact information if the little weasel’s just going to dodge us? What about his address, have you tried him there?”

Breathe, he reminds himself, body coiled and ready to strike as he winces. “Actually, sir, he asked me to drop him off at a one-hour motel. We don’t have a good address for him.”

“Of course not,” Shannon snarls viciously. “So, that son of a bitch ran, just like I thought he would.”

“Actually, Lieutenant,” Gil fights hard to keep the growl from his voice, “I don’t believe he’s intentionally avoiding us. Given his… _profession,_ I have reason to believe Bright might be in danger.”

“Oh, you do, huh? Well,” Shannon levels him with a snarl of a smile, “what a relief. Here I was, thinking the whore who’s shown up at three of our seven crime scenes with detailed information about the killer and our case skipped town after his bitch of an attorney got him released. But the one and only _Detective Arroyo_ clearly knows more about it than I do. Care to share with the class?”

“Sir, if I may,” JT steps forward, partially blocking Gil’s line of sight to the desk, which is just as well since he had been contemplating the easiest way to launch over it and throttle their C.O. “I haven’t spent as much time with Bright as my partner has, but I agree with his observations. Kid seemed more scared than anything.”

Easily shifting his scorn, Shannon barks, “Perfect. So, you both believe this Bright character is innocent with zero evidence to back up your theory.”

“Forgive me, Lieutenant,” Gil bites through gritted teeth, “but I don’t recall you having any damning evidence, yourself.”

The Lieutenant rockets out of his chair, and JT moves fully between them. Just as Shannon gears up to give him the dressing down of a lifetime, Gil’s phone rings from within his pocket, and he couldn’t be happier for the diversion. He rips it out and slaps it to his ear without even looking. “This is Arroyo.”

“Gil,” Jackie wheezes into the receiver, “I need you home. Now.”

In the background, he hears the bang and clatter of items being shuffled about. His heart skips a beat as he bolts from Shannon’s office, ignoring the furious voice calling out behind him. “What’s going on?”

She grunts but doesn’t answer, a loud ‘thump’ sounding through the speaker.

“Jackie? Are you safe?” he asks, trying to keep his voice down despite the way his thoughts scream in his head.

Breathless, she says, “It’s not me, it’s Bright. He’s…” a weighty silence hangs in the air, and only the sound of her panting breaks it. “I just need you here. Please.”

“I’m on my way.”

He stuffs the phone back in his pocket, throwing his jacket on and grabbing his keys in the same breath. When he turns and rushes toward the door, JT appears and grabs his bicep, pulling him to a stop. “Man, what the hell are you thinking—”

“Bright showed up at my house,” Gil bites out, voice hoarse with worry. “He’s with Jackie now, and I think something’s wrong.”

His partner’s taken aback, mouth flapping a moment before he regains his composure. “Wait, the kid’s at your house? How the hell’d he get your address?” The desperation in Gil’s body language tips him off to the seriousness of the situation, and he finally relinquishes his hold. “You know what, just go, man. I’ll cover for you—and you will owe me for that, by the way. You can fill me in later.”

The instant he’s released, he nods and races out the door. Just around the corner, he collides hard with a man leaning against the wall and nearly sends them both crashing to the pavement. He stumbles back before regaining his balance, looking the other man up and down to be sure he didn’t cause any damage. A faded Mets cap hides his eyes from view, hanging low over his face. A dark, scraggly beard obscures most of the rest of it, but Gil can see a smirk carved across his mouth. “Sorry,” he says, hands up in a placating gesture as he moves to bypass him.

His mind is elsewhere, otherwise he might have noticed the gruff, “Don’t worry about it, Detective,” that follows him into the parking lot.

Sliding into the Le Mans, he fires up the engine in one smooth motion, but the seat belt tongue rattles as he tries to line it up with the buckle. It’s a miracle he doesn’t cause an accident with the way he drives, speeding and bouncing between lanes the entire way, and by the time he climbs out in front of the house, he can’t remember one bit of it.

Gil flings the door open, Jackie’s name on his lips, when time screeches to a halt.

On the sofa, Bright lies curled beneath the throw, head pillowed on Jackie’s thighs. The dim lighting reveals only his face, peaceful as he rests, but he can see the cause for Jackie's urgency written there. Something has split his lower lip, a deep burgundy stripe sliced into the tender flesh, and the area around it is swollen. A few other cuts litter his face—one through his left eyebrow and two across his cheekbones, both of which Jackie has sealed with butterfly bandages—but the thing that really draws Gil’s attention are two perfectly circular, quarter-sized burns on his temples. The sight of him, wounded and so damn vulnerable, hits like a sucker punch.

At his sudden appearance, Jackie raises her head from where she’d flopped it back against the back cushions, expression pinched even as she attempts a smile. Absently, she strokes the kid's sweaty hair. “Hello, love.”

Quiet as he can, Gil pushes the door shut and closes the distance between them, kneeling down by her feet as one hand impulsively reaches out toward Bright. At the last second, he hesitates. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she says, eyes falling to the sleeping form in her lap. “I heard a knock at the door, and when I answered it, he was just… standing there, half-dead on his feet. I still have no idea how he managed to get here because he could hardly walk when I tried to pull him inside. He passed out right after I got him on the couch. There—” her voice cracks, and she has to swallow a few times before she can continue. “There are more injuries under the blanket.”

In a true testament to his self-control, Gil keeps himself from tearing away the thin layer of fabric to check for himself. “Where?”

She shoots a dark glance up at him. “Everywhere.” Questions claw their way up his throat, but as he prepares to ask them, she continues. “He has small bruises all over his hips and thighs, like…” steel sharpens her gaze, “like fingertips. There are half a dozen nicks like the ones on his face all across his torso, but it looks like whoever did this to him left his ribs alone, thankfully. I also found some shallow, parallel, three-inch cuts along the backs of his legs, about twelve or so on each. I got everything disinfected and bandaged. Nothing too severe, but…”

He nods when she trails off. “I know. How long has he been asleep?”

Peeking at her watch, Jackie sighs. “About twenty minutes. I managed to get some painkillers in him, so he could be out for a while.”

“Right,” Gil mumbles, pushing to his feet where he stands awkwardly, caught up in the way the halo of Bright’s hair spills out across Jackie’s sweatpants, the coppery skin of her hand complementing the undertone of the silken strands. The two of them make a pretty picture together, and if the poor kid wasn’t beaten bloody, the sight would warm him. As it is, a sickening curl of guilt rolls his stomach— _you let him leave, this wouldn’t have happened if he’d stayed, why did you let this happen?—_ so he steps to the side, gently lifts Bright’s feet, and tucks them into his lap as he takes a seat. “Then we wait.”

* * *

The next hour passes with a quiet TV show and even quieter conversation. Bright stirs a few times, snuffling and tossing his head as he readjusts. More than once, his feet catch Gil in the stomach hard, but he manages to choke back his grunts of pain. He finds himself mirroring Jackie with a hand on the kid’s bare feet, his thumb brushing comforting circles into the soft skin, and tries not to think too hard about why it feels so good.

Finally, halfway through an episode of House Hunters that’s threatening to put him to sleep, the toes under his palm all curl tightly as Bright stretches his legs out. Both he and Jackie dart their attention to the kid’s face as he cracks open tired blue eyes. He blinks up languidly a couple times then buries his face back into Jackie’s stomach.

Chuckling, she rubs at the nape of his neck and says, “How are you feeling, babe?”

Bright’s hand pops up, palm face down with his fingers splayed, and he waggles it back and forth.

Her look of concern is all Gil needs. “Hey, kid, can you sit up for me?”

Shifting his face, Bright peeks one eye over his way and sighs, sliding his legs off of Gil’s lap and onto the floor. He would have taken a tumble if Jackie hadn’t acted, her hands snaking under his arms before he can fall, holding him up until he can get his uncoordinated feet beneath him. After he does, the kid climbs up onto the cushion between them on his knees, wrapping the blanket up around his shoulders and head.

Debating the best way to broach the subject, Gil takes a deep breath only for Jackie to sneak in before he can. “How’s your pain, on a scale of one to ten?”

Bright takes a second to deliberate then holds up four fingers.

“Okay, that’s not too bad,” she says, more to herself than either of them. “I’m going to get you something to eat. Peanut butter and jelly or turkey?”

Turning his head toward her, Bright shakes his head while placing his thumb under his chin and sweeping his hand, fingers spread, out and away.

“Hmm,” she hums, one eyebrow arching. “I don’t remember asking if you wanted to eat, just whether you’d prefer a peanut butter and jelly or a turkey sandwich. Those are your only two options, so which is it gonna be?”

Closing his eyes with a grimace, the kid makes a fist then taps his thumb against his lower lip before using his index and middle fingers to swipe against his other palm. Then, he spells _J - E - L - L - Y_

With a wide grin, Jackie says, “One PB&J coming right up,” then stands and heads into the kitchen.

The subsequent silence is filled only by the soft chatter of whatever show came on after House Hunters, and Gil spends it staring at Bright’s wan face. The circles under his eyes cut dark into his skin, exaggerated, he’s sure, by the limited light from the TV, but his lips are also pale. The kid looks absolutely miserable, and he wishes he knew what to do about it. Well, doing nothing won’t help, he thinks, reaching out to softly grip Bright’s knee. “What happened to you, kid?”

His glassy eyes drop to the couch, and Gil wonders if he pushed too hard too soon. Then, a shaky hand emerges from within the blanket.

_A - C - L - I - E - N - T_

He can feel his jaw tense and has to work it loose before he can say, “One of your johns did this to you?”

One corner of the kid’s mouth quirks, and he signs: _S - O - M - E - O - F - I - T_

“More than one person hurt you?”

_U - S - U - A - L - L - Y_

Gil hangs his head, clenching his eyes closed while his lips thin to a harsh line. In his mind’s eye, phantom hands trace Bright’s skin, lacerations opening in their wake until every inch of him is dripping blood. He thinks he might be sick. Get your feelings out of the way, Arroyo, and help him, he berates himself and raises his head. “And what about these?” he asks, extending fingers to tenderly trace the edges of the burns on his temples.

“Burns,” Jackie cuts in as she returns. “From electroshock paddles, right? And before you even _think_ about denying it,” she adds, setting a glass of milk on the coffee table and pushing a plate into the kid’s hand, “I know what they are because I’ve seen them before.”

Sheepishly, Bright picks up the sandwich and takes a bite, unequivocally not denying it.

Gil watches him eat, noting the way the kid avoids meeting his gaze with a sorrow so deep-seated, he can feel the echo of it rattling in his bones. Electroshock equipment isn’t easy to come by, but a doctor would likely have access, solidifying their theory that the killer—if he really is the one hurting Bright this way—works in the medical field. Unbidden, Martin Whitly’s cold smile rises to the forefront of his thoughts along with the pornographic images that had haunted him for days after his visit to the Whitly home. Vaguely, he can hear Jackie urging Bright to drink the milk she brought out and the clack of the plate hitting the table, but his vision has gone red. Only when his knuckles pop from the strain does he realize how hard he’d clenched his hands, and the noise attracts both Jackie’s and Bright’s attention.

She looks him right in the eye and gives a tiny shake of her head, jerking her chin at Bright. The kid’s wide-eyed, curious stare and the stain of white from the milk on his upper lip comes close to diverting his fury. When he trusts himself not to snap, he asks in a tight voice, “What’s the plan then, kid?”

Bright blinks at him a few times before downing the rest of the milk and setting the glass aside. With the back of his hand, he wipes at his mouth, but Gil suspects it’s less to clear away the residue and more to buy himself time. Finally, he sits back, darting glances at both Jackie and Gil then lifts his right hand while the left trembles under the blanket.

_C - A - N - I - S - T - A - Y_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **-mild depiction of injury**
> 
> And there it is. Another one bites the dust. Don't worry, I'll be working tirelessly to get the next one up because I am _just_ as excited for the rest of this bad boy as you guys are. So, I'll be seeing you soon. 🥳🙌🏻 Please drop me a comment if you liked this one (I'll be squealing with joy over every, single one).
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, I cannot believe I've written and published 35k words already! It's so crazy to me how much support I've gotten for this fic, and I cannot thank you all enough. I'm having so much fun writing this piece, and I as we get further along, I'm just enjoying it more and more, and that's thanks to you all! ❤
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> If you all enjoy this chapter, please give a special thank you to my beta, [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa), who helped me a ton with wrangling some of the important scenes!

The words had fallen easily from his lips: “Of course you can,” like nothing else mattered, nothing else needed considering as long as the kid was safe. Still, nearly three hours later, Gil sits staring numbly at the TV beside his wife, a roughed-up hooker sprawled between them, and he tries to pretend he remembers what normal feels like. Throughout the afternoon, Bright had gradually settled back into Jackie, his head now resting just beneath her breasts. Together, they exchange signs over whatever mindless garbage they’re watching. What that is, exactly, doesn’t register because he’s too focused on the long, lean, bare leg in his lap—those damn shorts, he thinks miserably. He hasn’t managed a coherent thought since the limb snaked out from under the blankets and across his thighs. More than once, he's caught himself caressing the smooth skin without thinking, their position so familiar and natural that he just can’t help himself.

“Hey, babe,” Jackie eventually says to Bright, whose eyelids have lost their war with gravity, his breath evening out as he hovers in the sweet spot between barely conscious and out cold. “This might seem like a comfortable spot now, but if you fall asleep like this, you’ll hate yourself for it later. Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

Carefully, Gil lifts the foot off his lap, arranging it and its counterpart flat on the floor before standing, himself. Then, he offers a hand, and with a little help from Jackie, he gets the kid up—though, by the way he sways precariously, he won’t be there long. “Come on,” he coaxes, tugging Bright around the edge of the table or trying to, anyway. After only a single step, his knees buckle, and he topples forward into Gil, cheek smacking hard into his chest as he winds his arms up and around his neck.

“You might just need to carry him, love,” Jackie says with a knowing grin, shrugging when he scowls.

“Fine. Come here,” he grumbles, reaching an arm down to scoop Bright into a bridal carry. The instant his palm connects, the kid leaps up and locks his ankles behind Gil’s back, legs wrapped tight around his waist. If the smirk on his lips is any indication, he’s quite pleased with himself for it. Gil debates prying those powerful thighs apart— _Christ, don’t think like that—_ and removing himself from the situation entirely, but in the end, he figures it’s easier to endure than to admit why it has him so flustered in the first place. Who do you think you’re kidding, Arroyo, he thinks as he loops an arm under a well-proportioned backside.

He feels as much as hears the contented sigh against his throat when he puts up no fight, and Bright goes boneless. However, even the short trip up the stairs is long enough for certain parts of his body to recognize their proximity, parts that have coveted the warm body in his arms for weeks. He prays his mortification kills any physical reaction he might otherwise have had. Just in case, he rushes the last few feet to the bedroom and has to fight the desire to chuck him away—he can picture the tangle of limbs and ensuing hiss of pain. Instead, Gil runs up to the bed, leans over, and slackens his grip, extricating himself gingerly from the kid’s relaxed limbs.

Glassy eyes blink blankly up at him while Bright processes what just happened. Once he snaps out of it, he maneuvers onto one elbow and raises his other hand.

_I - B - R - O - U - G - H - T - S - O - M - E - T - H - I - N - G - S - W - I - T - H - M - E_

Sighing, he asks, “Did you leave them downstairs?”

_I - N - T - H - E - E - N - T - R - Y - W - A - Y_

With a quick nod, he spins around and heads back down, spotting the ratty, plastic bag on the floor by the door immediately. Jackie hums a question at him, but he’s too busy fighting the urge to do some things he’d no doubt regret, blood flow split between the brain he should be using and the one diverting all his thoughts into the gutter; he manages to keep his cool until he relays the bag back to Bright, who smiles, climbs onto his knees, and dumps the contents out across the duvet. A couple pairs of tattered sweatpants and equally tattered tees spill out.

Gil nearly has an aneurysm when the kid picks a pair of leather cuffs and a chain out of the pile.

“Whoa, what the hell are you doing?” he half-shouts.

Bright glances over from where he’d been weaving the chain through the bars of the headboard, eyes darting from the chain to the cuffs and back to Gil’s face. _F - O - R - M - Y - N - I - G - H - T - T - E - R - R - O - R - S_

“Is everything okay up here?” comes Jackie’s voice a second before she appears at his side, expression concerned. He doesn’t miss the way her eyes widen when they land on the kid and the thick band he’s working over his left hand. With a grin, she side-eyes him. “Did I interrupt something?”

Still struggling with the other cuff, Bright shakes his head, weak fingers slipping off the cuff half a dozen times as he fights to fit it over the meat of his right thumb, and it’s obvious he’s fading fast. Kicking himself for the impulsive decision even as he does it, Gil marches up to him, seizes his forearm, and yanks the leather into place, earning himself a dazed smile. Once he releases the limb—the feel of skin imprinted on his palm—the kid carefully worms his way up the bed and clips either end of the chain to a pair of clasps on the cuffs before flopping flat on his back.

“Oh, babe,” Jackie says, tilting her head back with a laugh. She pulls at the duvet, but Bright’s dead weight prevents her from freeing it. “You probably should have gotten under the covers before strapping in for the night, don’t you think?”

With a little poking and prodding—and Gil’s hand on his hip helping to roll him out of the way—she finally gets the blankets out from under Bright, who quirks his lips when she tucks him in. Within a minute, he goes completely limp.

“We should let him sleep,” Jackie whispers as they both back away from the bed. By the door, she gets up on her toes and presses her mouth to his ear. “Besides, I think there’s something that needs attending in the bedroom.” By the sultry undertone and the way she rubs herself against him, he thinks perhaps the sight of Bright bound to the headboard affects her just as much as it does him. Her hips sway sensuously as she disappears into the hallway.

Biting back a groan, Gil trails after her, mesmerized by the soft curves of her body—and more than happy to redirect the sexual tension strung tight beneath his skin—as she leads him toward the master suite. She pauses in the doorway to glance at him over her shoulder with heavy-lidded eyes before moving into the darkness in the room beyond. By the time he catches up and clicks on the light, she’s spread herself along the comforter, sweatpants and underwear tucked down below the swell of her ass, and her fingertips tease between her folds. His mouth floods with saliva.

“Why are you still over there, Daddy, when I’m ready for you over here?” The edge of a whine in her voice proves just how ready she really is, how badly she _wants._

He loosens the knot of his tie, shaking with anticipation while he works at the buttons of his shirt. Once both hang open, he allows them to slip from his shoulders to the floor without another thought. “Don’t worry, baby girl,” he rumbles, “Daddy’s coming.”

Her satisfied hum becomes a moan partway through as her hips roll up into her hand. The squelch as she slides her fingers all along and inside of herself calls out to him, and he’s out of his pants and boxers between heartbeats, one knee digging into the edge of the bed between her thighs. He scans every inch of her, torn between wanting to draw her pants down and off her legs so he can press against where she’s drenched in her own arousal and tearing off her blouse to suckle at her breasts. In the end, he settles on both, one hand pushing her waistband down her legs while the other reaches up under her shirt. With her free hand, Jackie helps him get the shirt up over her head and shoulders, leaving her bare but for her bra. When she tries to unlatch it herself, he growls and catches both her wrists, wrenching them above her head and holding them still with one hand. Leaning down, he murmurs, “You know better,” against the skin of her lower stomach, tracing a line from her belly button up to the clasp of the bra with his tongue.

“Mm, sorry, Daddy,” she pants, breathless as she tosses her head from side-to-side, hands straining against his hold.

Gil catches one side of the clasp in his teeth as his free hand takes hold of the other. When it pops free, he pushes the bra out of the way, massaging at her breast along the way. Once her nipples are exposed, he can’t contain himself, lips sealing around one rapidly pebbling nub before he can even think. With the flat of his tongue, he laps at her in broad strokes, pausing to occasionally suck her tender flesh between his teeth. She arches her back, cries pouring from her throat in a symphony, one leg flexing up around his hips so she can press herself against him, growing increasingly frantic as he nibbles across her sternum to give the same treatment to her other nipple.

“Oh, shit,” Jackie whines, following with a hoarse moan when his free hand slips between her thighs, smearing her slick on her upper thighs while his middle finger teases circles around her fluttering hole. Desperately, she thrashes and tugs at her hands again. “Can’t you see it, Daddy?”

Her question clears a little of the heat of clouding his thoughts, and he frowns in confusion at her. She levels a wicked grin down at him then wiggles her arms to draw his eyes there. “Can’t you imagine it? Imagine him like this?”

Suddenly, the deep, brown eyes staring up at him morph to blue, the skin beneath his hands, pale. Gil’s heart kicks up, thundering in his ears as what blood he has left shoots straight down to his cock, which pulses where it’s flush against Jackie’s groin.

Smiling, she licks at her lips and says, “You can, can’t you? I know I can. The way he’d look under you like this. Haven’t you wondered how he might feel writhing between us, Daddy? Because I have.”

He drops his head down onto her shoulder, groaning as he does just that: the contrast of Bright’s fair skin against Jackie’s, his long legs tangled with hers as they all slide and clash against each other, the gape of his mouth wide on a silent cry. Slipping two fingers inside of her, he thrusts them in time with the motion of his hips.

But Jackie isn’t finished yet. “I bet he’d take you so well. I’d prep him for you, of course, take my time, stretch him until he’s practically begging to have you inside of him I’d make him wait, though, talk him through everything we planned to do to him, first, and fuck him on my fingers until he’s as loose and wet as a cunt. And when the time came, I’d hold those gorgeous legs wide open while you finally got your first taste. I wonder if he’s as addicting as he looks.”

“Fuck,” he gasps into her collarbone before biting it, grinding against her as he mindlessly chases his pleasure, eyes clenched tight. He can see it clear as day, the two of them on the bed waiting for him, Bright’s thighs trapped around the outside of Jackie’s as she bares the loose, dripping furl of his hole. Just a taste, a voice whispers through the back of his mind, just one little taste. He can feel himself leaking as his body catches fire.

“Come on, Daddy,” Jackie says, words breaking as she rubs her clit against his palm. “Come and get us.”

Snarling, Gil readjusts his knees beneath him, using them to push Jackie’s thighs wider, and in one smooth motion, sinks in beside his fingers. Without pause, he yanks them free and relinquishes his hold on her wrists to grab her hips, almost pulling out completely before slamming back into her hard enough to shove her up the bed. Once he’s started, he can’t stop, and with her ankle on his lower back, she urges him to go faster, harder. He’s powerless to resist. The loud slap of their bodies colliding, over and over and over, rings out harmoniously with their grunts and moans and shouts of ecstasy. Deep in his gut, he can feel his orgasm building, but he’s determined to see her fall apart first. He twists a hand into her hair, lifting her back up off the mattress, and brings her close enough that he can tongue at her sweat-soaked neck, sucking and nibbling the way he knows drives her crazy. Before long, her face screws up, body quivering against him, feet scrabbling at the comforter behind him, and with an aching cry, she tumbles over the edge.

“That’s it, baby girl, that’s it,” he encourages as Jackie clamps down on him hard, egging him on further even as she rides out her own release. The tight heat of her combined with her sex-drunk expression is enough to white out his vision as he unloads into her. He continues to thrust throughout, relishing the way she shakes with overstimulation until it becomes too much for him, too, and he slides out with a ‘pop’ before dropping to the bed beside her.

With a satiated smile, he turns his head toward her and, from the corner of his eye, spots a flash of movement through the gap in the doorway. He goes cold, afterglow shattering in an instant.

“Oh god,” he breathes, fighting to get his sluggish body upright as the shadow in the hallway darts away.

“Love?” Jackie lays a soft hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Gil feels torn between leaping to his feet and chasing Bright down, throwing himself at the kid’s feet and begging for forgiveness and just crumpling where he lies, allowing the shame to consume him whole. “He was at the door,” is all he manages to say.

Rather than horrified, she seems amused by his answer. “Was he now? Well, he got quite the show, then, didn’t he?”

“That’s not funny, Jackie,” he snaps. “What if he heard you?”

Sighing, she sits up and lays her chin on his shoulder beside her hand. “So what if he did, Gil? He made the choice, upon hearing two people having sex in the next room, to come check it out. Besides, I didn’t say anything untrue, did I? If it bothered him, he’ll let us know. I can guarantee you it didn’t, though.”

“How can you possibly know that?” he hisses, pushing off the bed. Disgust seeps from his pores, saturating his skin until every inch of him screams it. “Bright showed up here beaten and bloody because one of his johns likes to hurt him, and now, he’s overheard us talking about fucking him.” His cheeks—and to his horror, his eyes—burn. “God, what will he think of us now?”

“Have you thought about asking him? You know, before jumping to conclusions?” she bites back, frustration evident in the harsh line of her brow. “What’s gotten into you, Gil?”

All the excuses he’s concocted over the weeks since meeting Bright crumble away in that moment, and there, buried under it all, lies the painful truth that he’s refused to acknowledge. “I—” he starts, but the words lodge in his throat behind the lump swelling there. When he swallows it down, they overflow, tumbling from his lips like vomit. “He’s got that—that scaron his neck. Someone took his voice, and considering he’s been selling himself since he was sixteen, my bet’s on his pimp,” he spits, the word leaving an acrid aftertaste. “That kid’s probably never had sex with someone he actually wanted before. How could I know if he’s consenting because he wants to or because he thinks he has to? Does he even understand consent? What if—” Tears bead on his lashes, and he can’t seem to hold them back.

“Oh, love,” Jackie murmurs, approaching with her arms held out to embrace him, but he backs away. “Do you really believe that wanting him makes you just like his clients?”

“I’ve talked with enough prostitutes to know that sex is just another kind of currency in their world, and I will _not_ have him thinking he needs to sleep with me to get my help,” he chokes out, looking at his feet while scrubbing away the moisture in his eyes. You don’t deserve pity, you son of a bitch, he thinks viciously.

“Gil,” she sighs, throwing up her hands. “I understand where you’re coming from, but,” she continues before he can latch onto her words and twist them, “he knows as well as I do that you’d never do something like that to him. He told you he trusts you, for Christ’s sake.”

His head snaps up, and he jabs a finger toward her. “You’re right, he does, and that’s exactly why I’m not going to touch him. I’m going to keep being a goddamn professional because that’s what that kid needs right now, not another middle-aged pervert trying to get in his pants.”

Jackie’s shaking her head, eyes frozen over. “Wow. Did it ever occur to you that Bright’s an adult, and that maybe, just maybe, you should trust him to make his own decisions?”

“How the hell is he supposed to make good choices? Do you really think that’s a skill he’s picked up giving blowjobs in back alleys?” The thought of Bright on his knees for countless, faceless men brings his blood to a boil, and it’s all he can do to keep his voice level. “He doesn’t want me any more than any of his clients, Jackie. I don’t need him to tell me that.”

“You don’t have the right to make that call for him,” she says, quiet and cutting, slowly shaking her head. “Let me know when you feel like pulling your head out of your ass, yeah?”

Without waiting for his reply, she turns toward the bathroom, closing and locking the door between them. He paces furiously at the end of the bed, fingers curling and uncurling either to punch a wall or perhaps himself. Eventually, when his knuckles and knees ache, he drops onto the edge of the bed, palms over his eyes. A memory arises of Bright’s awed face when he’d promised not to push, to respect his autonomy, and his resolve strengthens. “I can’t.”

* * *

The morning comes too soon, Gil’s mind still fuzzy and throbbing, hungover from the flood of emotion the night before. Clearing his throat, he rolls over to find himself alone in the bed, and when he remembers the way he’d gone on the attack, guilt slams him hard. He throws his feet over the side and stands, groaning as his head spins. If ever there was a morning I needed coffee, he thinks, shuffling over to the dresser to pull on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt before exiting to the hallway. He almost calls out, but near the top of the stairs, he hears Jackie’s quiet voice from the living room and freezes.

“... worries too much. And he saw you last night, like you didn’t already know that.”

A whisper of movement drifts up to him, and he realizes Bright’s signing a response.

Jackie chuckles. “I know, but it’s just how he is. You two need to talk, but if I know my husband, you’re going to need to be the one to initiate. In fact, I have an idea—”

Her voice dips too low to catch, and he waits another moment before making his appearance, hoping his discomfort isn’t as plain on his face as it is in his head. There, on the sofa, Jackie and Bright snuggle close, much like they had the day before. His head lies cradled on her stomach while she sips a mug of coffee, no indication that they’d been colluding only seconds prior. The kid’s changed— _thank god—_ into the clothes he brought with him, moth-eaten holes exposing little spots of skin all over his torso, but at least he replaced the booty shorts with sweats. Upon closer inspection, Gil notices her hand combing through his hair.

They stare at each other, and he can see that she’s still just as raw as he is, dark bags cut into the space beneath her eyes. Finally, with a soft quirk of her lips, she says, “Morning, love,” and he knows they’ll be okay.

Bright lets his head loll to the right, cheek on Jackie’s lap, and tosses an equally soft smile his way. His left hand, fingers held together, taps at his lower lip before he sweeps it out from his face and up. Gil’s struck again by the pair they make, the domesticity of waking up to warm smiles and greetings, and a twinge of yearning stabs at his heart. He nods, unable to formulate any other response, and heads for the kitchen to grab coffee for himself—and to give himself time to collect his thoughts.

“So,” he says as he returns, steaming cup in hand. He flops down beside Bright’s feet, which waste no time taking up residence on his thighs. “What’s the plan today, kid? You got anywhere to be?”

Bright tilts his head, thoughtful, before shaking it. _N - O - T - Y - E - T_

Jackie responds, but Gil’s stopped listening. Upon glancing away, something draws his attention to the bay window on his left. Frowning, he turns his full focus outside and across the street to where a man walks casually along the sidewalk. Nothing about him stands out as particularly unusual. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans that have seen better days, work boots just visible under the hem, and a dark gray sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over his head. From underneath, the brim of an old, worn Mets cap pokes out. Before he has a chance to figure out what about the man had caught his eye, Jackie laughs at something Bright signs, and his speculations vanish from his mind at the sight of their matching grins.

Feeling their infectious humor stretching his own mouth wide, he says, “Well, kid, I can think of a few good ways to occupy your time, and they won’t even cost you fifty bucks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- explicit sexual content**   
>  **\- non-consensual voyeurism**
> 
> Dun, dun, duuuuuuuuun. Things are really starting to get interesting up in here, wouldn't you say? If you guys enjoyed the chapter, I hope you'll consider leaving me a comment; every, single one makes me smile and keeps me motivated to keep writing this beast of a fic. See you in the next one!
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, my friends, this one was one of my favorites to write, so I hope you guys like this one! Also, in case any of you haven't seen it yet, please check out the first chapter of this fic for _cover art_ drawn by my wonderful beta, Ponderosa! It's incredible work, and I honestly couldn't be happier with it.
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> This chapter, as per usual, was beta'd by my wonderful friend, [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa).

_S - U - P - E - R - F - L - U - I - D - S - P - A - C - E - T - I - M - E - T - H - E - O - R - Y_

“You’re supposed to phrase the answer in the form of a question, babe,” Jackie says around a laugh, fingers covering her mouth as she takes in Bright’s over-emphasized eye-roll and the little “whatever” hand wave he offers in response.

Gil, on the other hand, is trying to understand how he guessed the correct answer again, his twenty-second one in a row. The way he reclines on the couch, knees tucked under his chin while seeming for all the world like he’s halfway to sleep, is deceptive because something manic burns in his eyes for anyone who knows what to look for. Gil couldn't say when he became part of that group. Every time, the second the category card flips, Bright’s hands fly through fingerspelling the answer before the host has finished reading it. For some reason, he always forgets to phrase it as a question, but Gil’s pretty sure that has nothing to do with faulty memory; he seems more interested in testing his own—ridiculously impressive—knowledge than winning by arbitrary rules. Jackie seems over the moon it all, smiling wide and celebrating with him every time, occasionally barbing his refusal to conform to Jeopardy’s standards.

On the next commercial, she checks her watch then bows her back in a stretch, patting at Bright’s shoulder. “Okay, what sounds good for dinner?”

The kid trains a half-daunted, half-pleading expression on her, which Gil might have warned him against if he didn’t find the whole thing so amusing. His lower lip juts out, wide, blue eyes trained on Jackie like a dog expecting to be on the receiving end of a rolled-up newspaper.

“No, no,” she chides, pushing to her feet and securing her hands to her hips. You are so screwed, kid, he thinks, grinning. “You haven’t eaten anything but two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I let you get away with it because of the circumstances, but you need to eat. So, tell me what we’re having for dinner.” When he doesn’t fold, she heaves a put-upon sigh. “I didn’t want to have to do this, babe, but you’re really forcing my hand here. If you won’t pick,” she bends down and scoops up the remote, clicking the TV off, “then no more Jeopardy for you. Not even the recorded episodes.”

Bright's comically-betrayed face tips Gil over the edge, and he lets out a sudden bark of laughter that devolves into a fit of raucous chortles. Jackie follows close behind, her valiant attempt at remaining stern thwarted by the trembling of her lips, and the kid shakes with his own, silent amusement. Once his puppy dog façade splinters, it doesn’t take long for the entire thing to shatter. When it does, he relents.

_H - O - W - A - B - O - U - T - G - R - I - L - L - E - D - C - H - E - E - S - E_

“Oh, for the love of—” Jackie mutters, covering her eyes with her hand. “Fine, but you are not subsisting on nothing but sandwiches while you’re here, you hear me?”

She exits into the kitchen after Bright gives her a mock salute, flipping on a burner while pulling out a griddle, the sound of her grumbling audible still over the bang of the cupboards. When he turns back toward Gil, he has a conspiratorial glint in his eye. _I - S - S - H - E - A - L - W - A - Y - S - S - O - I - N - T - I - M - I - D - A - T - I - N - G_

“Kid, you have no idea,” Gil says in a stage whisper, earning a playful glare and the bird from Jackie. “So, what’s the deal with you and sandwiches, anyway? Is that really all you eat, or are you trying to tell us something?”

_W - H - A - T - C - O - U - L - D - I - P - O - S - S - I - B - L - Y - T - E - L - L - Y - O - U - W - I - T - H - S - A - N - D - W - I - C - H - E - S_

He snorts. “You tell me, you’re obviously the evil genius here.”

Bright rolls his eyes again in mock exasperation, shaking his head as he flops back into the cushions. The silence between them—broken only by the sizzle of butter on the cooktop—is comfortable, which Gil takes no small comfort in, considering his and Jackie’s peep show the day prior. He’d been convinced the kid wouldn’t want to see him again, that he might wake to find an empty guest room and another note asking him to kindly fuck off. Their levity eases some of his anxiety, though guilt still simmers beneath the surface.

Just as he finally opens his mouth, ready to tear into the subject he’d been avoiding like the plague all morning, Jackie returns from the kitchen with a plate stacked high with twelve sandwich halves and another glass of milk for Bright, who grimaces but wisely keeps any commentary about his distaste to himself. “You better eat at least four of these, babe, or I’m making you more,” she warns as she sits and grabs one half off the top of the pile.

With an impish grin, Bright signs: _Y - E - S - M - O - M_

Pointing at him with the sandwich, she counters, “Just for that, you eat five,” and takes a bite.

They banter back and forth for a while, and though Gil tries to mimic their good humor, he just can’t quite replicate it. In the back of his mind, that exact moment the kid had shifted beyond the gap in their bedroom door, the instant he’d been caught, plays on repeat, and a familiar shade of shame creeps over him. Neither Jackie nor Bright notice the change in his mood right away, too engrossed in their sandwich-centric barbs, but by the time they do, he can feel the grim set of his own features and the cold, clammy sweat on his palms.

“Gil,” Jackie begins in a weary tone, meeting his gaze over the kid’s shoulder. 

Bright, on the other hand, gradually tilts his head, squinting in consternation, and his stare drills holes straight through Gil’s skull. _I - S - T - H - I - S - A - B - O - U - T - Y - E - S - T - E - R - D - A - Y_

“Yeah, kid, it is,” he says, fluttering nervous fingertips over his goatee. “And knowing you, you already know what I want to talk about, don’t you?”

Bright smirks, a devious curl of his lips, and without replying, throws one of his legs over Gil’s, seating himself decisively in his lap. His heart stutters as hands settle over his chest, shooting a jolt of electricity through him like a pair of defibrillator paddles, and in a tremendous display of self-control, he keeps from chucking the kid off of him by taking fistfuls of couch cushion. “Bright, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

_M - A - K - I - N - G - S - U - R - E - I - H - A - V - E - Y - O - U - R - A - T - T - E - N - T - I - O - N_

Focusing on Jackie, the kid holds up his index fingers, facing each other, and swipes them back and forth in an alternating pattern then points as his temple. He then waves that finger forward and out, then taps at his chest. When she nods, he aims his gaze back at Gil and starts signing too rapidly for him to keep up.

When Jackie speaks, Gil startles until he realizes she’s translating for Bright. “Yes, I saw you two having sex, and yes, I heard what Jackie said. About what you both wanted to do to me.”

Gil purses his lips, and he has to swallow hard before saying, “I’m so—”

With his hands flat, palms face down, Bright makes an ‘X’ with his arms and jerks them apart, all the while shaking his head with a frown. Once Gil falls silent, the kid starts signing again.

“Don’t be sorry,” Jackie says softly, darting a weighted glance Gil’s way. “I’ve known you were interested for a while.”

Overcome by shock, Gil turns toward Jackie, but a hand snags his chin and yanks him back. Bright holds up two fingers and jabs them toward his own eyes. Once he has the full attention of the both of them, the kid carefully spells out his next sentence.

_I - M - I - N - T - E - R - E - S - T - E - D - T - O - O - G - I - L_

“Don’t say that,” he chokes out immediately, lust and nausea surging through him in equal measure. “My help doesn’t have any strings attached, kid. You don’t have to act like you want me.”

A bewildered expression contorts Bright’s face, and he looks at Jackie, making an ASL ‘I’ then bumping his forehead with the thumb-side of his hand.

She snorts in response, a derisive sound dripping with all the frustration carried over from their fight yesterday. “Yeah, he is. And now you see what I’ve been dealing with.”

Reaffixing blazing eyes back on Gil, Bright replies.

_W - H - O - S - A - Y - S - I - M - A - C - T - I - N - G_

“Kid,” he starts, resisting the instinct to cover his face with his hands because he knows the second he releases his death grip on the couch cushions, his hands will inevitably find Bright’s hips. Thoughts churn in his mind, things like “The poor kid’s brainwashed” and “This is devolving too fast, need to get a handle on it” and “Just one little taste.” He shakes that last one away. “I understand that this might be normal in your line of work, but I’m old enough to be your father. And based on the state you showed up in, I’d say I’m one of the only men in your life who isn’t treating you like garbage. That doesn’t mean—”

In one furious motion, Bright snaps the fingertips and thumb of his right hand together in front of his mouth. Taken aback, Gil falls silent, mouth gaping. Nostrils flaring, the kid then holds up his shaky left hand flat, palm face up, and makes a chopping motion with the other, slapping them together hard.

His hackles rise at the interruption, but he manages to keep his temper in check. Mostly. “Go ahead, then.”

Bright points sharply at Gil’s chest, brushes his jaw with his flattened hand, then cups his ear, raising both eyebrows in a challenge. When Gil huffs but doesn’t respond, he resumes signing.

Jackie watches his hands for a minute without translating, heartbreak steadily bleeding out across her face. By the time she does speak, her voice is thick. “You have no idea what I’ve been through, so stop acting like you do. I could tell you things that would make you sick to hear, but I’m more than just the things that have been done to me. I’m not interested in you because you’re the only decent human being I know, and it doesn’t matter how old you are. You’re smart and funny and more attractive than I think you know. And when I’m around you, for once in my life, it feels like someone cares about me for more than just my body and what they can take from it.”

A trick of the lighting or of the mind, Gil sees the shadows of phantom hands on Bright’s neck around that goddamn collar of his and over the scabbing wounds on his temples. They’re there, where his lips and cheek are split, and worst of all, on his wrists right where he, himself, had pinned Jackie down the day before. You’re not like his clients, you’re worse because you know better, he thinks then croaks out, “You’re right, I don’t know anything. Not what you’ve been through or where you’re coming from. Hell, I don’t even know your real name. But I’ve been doing this long enough to know the kinds of things that happen to other prost—to other _sex workers_ in this city. And no one in that position, not even someone as clever as you, is equipped to make good decisions. No one.”

Bright’s cheeks color, from embarrassment or anger or some amalgamation of the two. Before he can tear into Gil himself, Jackie jumps in. “You can't know that, Gil.” Her expression is pinched when he spares her a glance.

Seemingly not satisfied with her defense, Bright also starts fingerspelling: _Y - O - U - R - E - N - O - T - L - I - S - T - E—_

Gil reaches up and encloses both of Bright’s hands in his own, stilling them. “I have been listening to you, kid, but now I need you to listen to me. It doesn’t matter if I’m interested or if you’re interested because nothing is going to come of it. I’m not going to sleep with you, and nothing you say is going to change that.”

The look on Bright’s face adjusts a dozen times, filtering through a range of emotions until it settles on defeat. His lower eyelids shimmer with moisture, his cheeks and mouth twitching as he holds back tears. He tugs his hands free from Gil’s hold, letting them hover, uncertain in the air between them. Slowly, he swipes his hand back over his shoulder a couple times and points at himself. Cupped hands rise up in front of his chest, one slightly before the other, and he jerks them forward and down while curling them into fists—by the way his knuckles go white, tighter than he needs to—then points weakly at Gil.

“Babe,” Jackie tries, and by the distraught twist of her brows and mouth, Gil knows that whatever he said with those signs packed a punch. “Please—”

Without even acknowledging her, Bright continues by pointing to himself again then to his temple then to Gil before making an ‘X’ with both index fingers and swiping them apart. Whatever this means agitates Jackie further, and when the kid slides off of Gil’s lap and to his feet, she pops up beside him. “Please don’t say that, just wait—”

But he doesn’t, already extricating himself from her grasping hands and heading for the stairs. Once he’s disappeared behind the banister, she whips around, teeth clenched behind her snarling lips. “What is wrong with you?”

The flurry of emotions he’s fought so hard to keep contained spills out. “What’s wrong with me? How about we talk about what’s wrong with you, Jackie? You seriously want to take a twenty-two-year-old prostitute who showed up on our doorstep covered in bruises and goddamn electroshock burns to bed?”

Shoulders hunching up as she stretches her clawed fingers forward like she means to strangle him, she hisses, “What I want, you asshole, is to let that poor kid have a _choice,_ something you seem dead set on taking away from him. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread sweeps through him. For a moment, he’s paralyzed, caught between his overwhelming rage—and all the messy, ugly feelings he’s buried beneath it—and the comprehension of how royally he fucked that conversation up. “Wh—you… Those last couple signs. What did he say?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, now you’re interested in what he had to say?” she snaps, arms falling to her sides. Her features distort with disgust just before she turns her head to the side, unable to stand even the sight of him. After a few harsh exhales, she says, “Well, if you really want to know, you’re going to have to ask him.”

As if on cue, Bright reappears at the top of the stairs, changed out of his lounging clothes into a deep Prussian blue button down, a pair of ballet flats, and the shorts Gil’s beginning to suspect will haunt his dreams for years to come. On his right forearm, where he’s rolled his sleeve back, the Target bag full of his things digs into his skin.

When Jackie spots him from the corner of her eye, the tension in her shoulders melts away, and her demeanor shifts completely. “Babe, are you okay?”

The kid doesn’t answer, just keeps his perfectly-neutral face forward and descends the stairs to the entryway. On the surface, he seems as upset as he had when he’d taken off, but Gil’s witnessed enough of the graceful way he normally moves to know some else is wrong by his jerky, halting steps. In the light from the living room, he catches a glimmer of sweat across his forehead. “Bright, what’s going on? Where are you going?”

Still, he refuses to answer and reaches for the front door, stopping only when Jackie lays a gentle hand on his elbow. “Please,” she murmurs.

With the least convincing smile Gil’s ever seen contorting those lips, the kid holds up a hand. _D - U - T - Y - C - A - L - L - S_

And then, before either of them can react, he wrenches the door open and slips out. Through the bay window, Gil follows with his eyes as Bright jogs up the street and out of view. Some part of him wants to give chase, but with everything that happened, he figures the kid deserves his space. So, he turns to Jackie, aiming for reassurance as he says, “He’ll be okay,” though he suspects he’s miles off.

Without moving her eyes from where she, too, had tracked Bright’s retreat, she whispers, “You can’t know that, Gil.”

When he can’t muster up a response, he collapses back into the couch and throws a hand over his eyes. He listens as Jackie climbs the stairs, and the slam of the bedroom door tells him, in no uncertain terms, to stay away.

And he does.

The rest of his night passes in silence so heavy, he half-expects it to smother him. With his ever-present shame, he almost wishes it would. Instead, the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and emotional exhaustion eventually drag him into restless sleep.

* * *

It’s a full minute of blinking up at the darkened ceiling before Gil can pinpoint what woke him. Sometime after falling asleep, he’d tipped over onto the cushions, and his lower back protests the awkward position vehemently. He sucks a pained breath through his teeth as he rights himself, slowly rotating his torso to try and work some of the tension from his screaming muscles. Groggy, he gropes in the dark for his phone, and when he clicks the screen on, he grunts; waking at three in the morning was becoming too routine for his liking. With a heave, he stands and hobbles over to the staircase, creeping up and into the bedroom as quietly as he can. As he’s tugging his shirt off over his head, the bedside lamp clicks on and nearly blinds him.

“I was wondering if you’d ever come to bed,” Jackie grumbles.

“Wasn’t really sure I’d be welcome,” he fires smoothly back before reining himself in, and he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, meeting her stormy gaze. “I’m sorry, Jackie.”

Some of the edge in her stare softens, but she says, “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.”

“Baby,” he sighs, the throb of a headache flashing behind his eyes. “I can’t give him what he was asking for. I just can’t.”

“Then don’t,” she says simply, propping herself up on one elbow. “No one’s trying to take your choice in the matter away, either, Gil. But what you said…” Shaking her head, she searches a moment for the right words. “If you really felt the need to uphold your White Knight complex, fine, but what you said to him was cruel. He didn’t deserve to have his feelings shredded like that, especially not by someone he obviously cares about.”

The hurt that had flickered on Bright’s face replays behind his eyes, and he knows she’s right, but before he can wrap his head around how to go about fixing things, his phone buzzes to life on the nightstand.

“God,” Jackie groans, but he glimpses concern through her faux-irritation. “Tell me they didn’t find another body.”

When he notices the name on the screen, alarm bells blare in the back of his mind, and he answers it without question. “Bright? Why are you calling me, what’s going on?”

The line crackles before a gruff voice says, “Well, that’s hardly any way to greet someone, Detective. And when I went out of my way to reach out, too.”

Even as frost penetrates him to the bone, freezing the breath in his lungs, something about the way the unknown man had addressed him… “I know you. You’re the guy I ran into at the station. You... I saw you outside my house. How the hell did you get this phone?”

A sharp laugh precedes, “So, you do remember me. I’m flattered, truly, but I think you know exactly where I got this phone, Detective. From the one who was delivered unto me, little—you called him, Bright, didn’t you? Huh, maybe you two aren’t as close as I thought.”

Gil can feel his heartbeat pound in his head as well as his chest. “What did you do to him?” Beside him, Jackie sits up with a horrified look.

“Nothing, for now. Believe it or not, I’m pretty fond of our little friend, which is the only reason I’m making this call.” The chummy tone drops away, leaving only the cold, hardened voice of a man he has no doubt will follow through on his subsequent threat. “You really need to stop poking your nose into my business. My work is important, and you don't want to make me do something we’ll both regret.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- none**
> 
> Oops, I'm sorry, is that another cliffhanger? Goodness me, I wonder how that got in there... 😈 If you liked the chapter, I hope you'll leave me a comment because nothing brightens my day like reading your thoughts! ❤
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've ever written this much content this quickly in my life. I just can't seem stop writing this fic, especially now that we are right in the thick of it, my friends!!
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa) beta'd this chapter and, like always, helped me make this bad boy a million times better! Please give their content some love because, god, they are amazing.

Eternity passes in labored breaths and measured silence. Nothing moves, and yet the Earth keeps on turning. Gil’s well aware of these truths, but in the space between heartbeats, shadows creep and crawl along the floor, the confines of his infinite purgatory. Cruel laughter finally breaks the spell, and reality crashes back in.

“What’s wrong, Detective? Are you afraid for your Bright?” The tone drips with syrupy, saccharine sarcasm, but a razor-wire edge underlines the words, slicing clean through the bullshit; no matter the mask he’s adopted, this man is livid beneath it. “Well, as I said, there’s really no need for that, provided you behave. He’s not part of my mission, and it would be quite the shame to waste my precious, God-given gift.”

A heavy thud in the background prompts the lunatic to speak away from the receiver incomprehensibly, and Gil realizes with a start that he’s addressing someone else in the room with him. As the quiet string of muffled gibberish persists, he covers his exposed ear with his hand, clamping his eyes closed to cut out all extraneous input. Through the consistent rasp of speech, metal rattles against metal and steadily gains volume the longer he listens.

“Anyway,” clarity returns to the man’s voice alongside a crinkling sound—hair, that’s facial hair against the mic, he thinks—“please, forgive the interruption. I’m sure you, of all people, can understand how distracting—”

With a growl, Gil interjects, “Just tell me what you want.”

A grin carries over on his voice. “Not one to mince words, are you? I like that. Well, it’s very straightforward, Detective: stop prying into my business, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“So, you are the killer, then,” Gil whispers, and behind him, Jackie reminds him of her presence with a sharp inhale.

“That’s a bold accusation to make, given the circumstances, don’t you think?”

Focus, he tells himself, swallowing down a calming breath. “You know the Major Crimes unit can’t just drop an active murder investigation.

“If you care about him—and I know you do so—I have faith that you’ll figure something out,” comes the flippant reply. “The boy has quite a way about him, doesn’t he? He tried to warn me years ago, before I had my first taste,” Gil winces at the choice of words _—but who is ‘he,’ does he mean Bright—_ “that no one is immune to this particular siren’s song. I didn’t listen, but time proved him true, in the end. The temptation was too great.” The phantom hands he’d seen on Bright earlier are suddenly attached to a man with a scraggly beard and a red ball cap. “Have you partaken yet, Detective?”

Grinding his teeth at the implication, he attempts to regain control of the conversation. “There must be something else you want—well, you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t even know your name.”

The conversation lulls, long enough for Gil to wonder if his dodge was too overt, if maybe his refusal to grace the objectification of Bright with a response would be enough to push the man over the edge of sanity on which he obviously teeters. “Where have my manners gone? I’m afraid I must apologize again, Detective. You may call me Paul.”

References to God, biblical name, religious fanatic, maybe, he thinks. “Quite all right, Paul, but you already know I’m not the lead detective on this case. I can’t do what you’re asking me to do, so it seems like we’ve reached an impasse.”

“Hmm,” Paul hums thoughtfully. “Your Lieutenant certainly complicates things, doesn’t he? What if he were… removed from the equation? What would you do, then?”

Bile foams up around the back of Gil's throat, and it’s a Herculean task to force it back down. “Did you just threaten an off—”

“What,” the man repeats, enunciating each word, “would you do, Detective?”

A pair of hands land on his shoulders and slip down over his collarbones, bringing with them the spicy scent of Jackie’s perfume. Through her warmth at his back, he can feel her uncompromising conviction; he soaks as much of it in as he can. “We won't stop looking for you, Paul. You’ve murdered seven people and kidnapped an eighth. You can’t negotiate your way out of this.”

“I must say, I’m pretty disappointed, but if that’s how it has to be…” he trails off with a sigh, and the sound of movement through the line has Gil’s body tensing. Paul talks again, but not to him, and then the mic rustles against skin. Just as he’s about to call out, he hears the harsh clang of metal, much closer this time, and his heart stops. In his ear, frantic breaths grow shallow before cutting off entirely, sputtering following close behind. The rattling quickens as he listens, helpless, to what he can only assume is Bright being strangled.

“No,” he shouts into the phone, lurching to his feet. He nearly takes Jackie off the bed with him, but he’s too focused on the struggle happening on the other end of the line to care. His vision swims with the image of reddened cheeks, plush lips yawning wide, fighting desperately to pull in air, but the hand—inhumanly large in his turbulent imaginings—around his neck won’t allow it. Crystalline blue eyes gradually lose their shine. “Stop, please!”

His knees go weak as Bright sucks in a massive breath, painful coughs wheezing through his tortured throat, and Paul pulls the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

All logic lost, Gil quakes with rage as he snarls, “You sadistic son of a—”

“Ah ah, Detective,” the aforementioned son of a bitch intones, gleeful now that he’s forced Gil to show his hand, “language. Come now, we can discuss this like civilized men, can’t we? If you want the boy to live, all you have to do is close the case. Consider all methods approved, I’m not picky. Wouldn’t be the first time your department had to find itself a scapegoat, I’m sure.”

His brain is miserably empty, thoughts chased away by the influx of adrenaline. He searches for something to say, floundering while whispered pleas slip out subconsciously. “Paul, I—don’t hurt him, please, don’t hurt him.”

“I’m not an unreasonable man,” he coos in faux sympathy. “I’ll give you,” the word stretches out as he pretends to think it over, “one week. Seven days to wrap things up. Simple enough, no? Our Lord created all life with less. Though, I should warn you, Detective,” Paul’s voice goes cold like a sudden plunge into a frozen lake, “don’t test my patience. For every additional day it takes, I’ll send a piece of him to you, starting with those big, beautiful eyes you love so much.”

“Wait—” he cries, but the line clicks to static.

In his hand, the phone screen goes dark, a streak of light from the lamp cutting across it, and he can see his reflection rooted there. Jackie moves in close behind, looming over him from her position on the edge of the bed, and the lines around the monstrous figure their combined silhouettes create blur as his hands begin to shake.

“Love,” Jackie says against his shoulder, arms wrapped a little too snug around his chest. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

It’s a chore to turn around in her death grip, but he does it, palms coming up to cradle her cheeks as he takes in every detail of her face like it’s the last time he’ll ever see it. You may as well since you’ve lost your chance with Bright, a cruel part of him reminds. “He has him. The East Side Slicer has Bright.”

She shakes her head, slow at first before picking up speed, lips parting on a chorus of noes, distress warping the word and all its iterations until they’re hardly recognizable. Her hands cinch atop his shoulders as she wobbles in place, listing forward to rest her forehead on his sternum. “We should have gone after him,” she breathes so quietly he hardly hears, and he can't be sure he was meant to.

While the accusation isn’t pointed, he can’t help but take her words to heart like the twisting stab of a corkscrew. She blames herself—he can see it in the taut line of her spine, feel it in the nails digging into his deltoids—but he knows the fault lies solely with him. He could have kept the kid from running, could have tracked him down and brought him back, could have pulled him in close while he had the chance and never let him go. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs throatily, on the verge of jamming his fingers into his own eyes or hammering the walls with his fists until they bleed or crying, he’s not sure which.

Jackie jerks her head up, expression fiery despite the tears leaking from her eyes. “No. Now’s the time to figure out how to help Bright, not to feel sorry for ourselves.” With a few furious swipes, she cleans the tears from her cheeks.

Watching her compose herself, sequestering the fear that sneaked up on her, fills him with determination. “You’re right,” he asserts, raising his cell and scanning through his contacts as he moves away from the bed and toward the closet. Clicking the call button, he sandwiches the phone between his ear and his shoulder while tugging on a pair of pants, and when a groggy voice answers, he straightens. “JT, I need you to meet me at the station. Our killer’s got Bright.”

The sleep-deprived quality vanishes from his partner’s tone, and he promises to be there in ten. Clicking the call away without reply, Gil tugs on a sweater and runs his fingers through his wild hair before turning back to Jackie. She’s gotten up, stripped out of the tee in which she’d slept, and grabbed her uniform even though she doesn’t work for another three hours, not that that’s ever stopped her. When affection swells suddenly, he marches right up to her, loops an arm around her waist, and pulls her into a kiss that has them both breathless by the time they break apart. “I’m going to find him, Jackie.”

Though weak, she smiles. “I know you will.”

* * *

“JT,” Gil says and stands as soon as his partner appears beside his desk, passing his phone over with Bright’s contact open on the screen, “I need you to run a trace and tell me the last time this number was pinged, where it was, and who else was contacted on it between the hours of 8 p.m. and 3 a.m. I’m going to sit with a sketch artist and see if we can’t get a composite of this asshole.”

“Wait, hold up,” JT races to say before he can get far. “You’re telling me you’ve seen this dude?”

“Ran into him outside the station the day Bright showed up at my house,” he spits, still trying desperately to recall that one brief glimpse he’d gotten of Paul’s face that day. “Based on what he said, it sounds like he’s been watching the kid for a while. Just run that trace, I’ll fill you in later.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” The muffled reply trails after him as he makes his way to the empty office he’d set up earlier. The artist’s still there in the office chair with a massive sketchpad braced between her spread knees, one hand loose on the binding while the other twirls a pencil around. Judging by the dark circles and the glaze over her eyes, she seems to have slept about as well as he had. She can’t be older than twenty, a tiny, waifish thing in an oversized hoodie and skinny jeans. When the door slams behind him, she snaps out of her daze, nearly dropping everything to the floor. With a flush spreading along her face, she sets the pencil and pad on the desk and jumps up to greet him, reaching up to self-consciously tuck a stray of ginger hair behind her ear before pulling her beanie down to cover it. “You must be Detective Arroyo?” The sweet timbre of her voice rises to a squeak on the last word.

“Please, call me Gil,” he corrects, accepting her clammy handshake awkwardly before taking the seat opposite her. “And you are…?”

“Oh, um,” she squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head at herself with a wrinkle between her brows. “I’m Shad—Shay _lee_ , sir.”

“Right,” he pauses, waiting for her to take lead, but when she just shuffles nervously in place instead, he gives her a tight-lipped smile and gestures to the sketchbook. Maybe the precinct should vet the contract sketch artists better, he thinks warily, hoping this won’t be a waste of what little time he has. “Should we get to it, then?”

“Of course,” she titters, retaking her seat and arranging her sketchpad back on her lap, and pulls a laptop out of her backpack, placing it on the table between them. It turns on while she’s readying her pencil, and a dozen or so pictures of various ethnicities, genders, and ages come into view. Within the time it takes him to examine the screen, her disposition shifts drastically, the lines of tension on her face smoothing out. When she speaks, though still quiet, she sounds more confident. “The suspect was a man, you said, correct?”

Gil nods.

“Try and picture his face. Do you have it?” He nods again. “What was his race?”

“White.”

She makes a note on the upper left corner of the page then pulls the laptop over. “Describe the general shape of his face for me.”

“It was narrow,” he says immediately, recalling how thin Paul’s cheeks had seemed surrounded by all that wild hair. “Not very defined cheekbones, more pointed chin, I think, but it was hard to tell with his beard.”

She fiddles with the laptop again, turning it toward him with one man’s face on the screen. “Sort of like this or no?”

Staring hard at the man’s image, he eventually shakes his head. “The chin looks right, but he wasn’t that skinny.”

The scratch of lead on paper fills the momentary silence before she asks, “What was his facial hair like? Was it stubbly or long? Did it seem well-groomed, soft, wiry?”

“Wiry and thick, dark,” he says and frowns at the fuzziness of the image in his head. Do better, Bright’s depending on you, he thinks. “He had a full beard and mustache. It wasn’t too long, but it did go past his jawline a bit and it was unkempt.”

Shaylee nods, brows furrowed with concentration. It takes a few minutes for her to address him again. “What about his mouth? Were his lips fuller or thin? Did you notice any distinguishing marks, moles, or scars?”

“I don’t—” His frown deepens, and he leans into his fingertips, rubbing hard along his eyelids like it might stimulate his optic nerves and the memory held within the gray matter behind them. “His mustache covered most of his upper lip, and I didn’t notice any marks.”

After another few passes with her fingers over the keys, she turns the laptop back around with six more men on display. “Are any of these close?” He checks them all before shaking his head. She taps a couple more times before showing him another batch of faces. “How about these?”

The fifth picture in the group catches his eye, and he points it out to her. “This is the closest, but I honestly couldn’t see much of his mouth through his facial hair.”

She hums, but it’s not a displeased sound, merely thoughtful. “All right, let’s move onto his nose, then.”

The scant few moments when he’d slammed into Paul in front of the station play back in slow motion. “The base of it was wide, and the tip was really round. The bridge was wide, too, and the spot right between his eyes was a little flat and crooked, like he’d broken it at some point. He also had those lines along his cheeks.”

A pair of bright green eyes meet his over the spiral binding of the sketchpad. “Nasolabial folds? These,” Shaylee smiles and gestures to the same spot on her own cheeks, and Gil nods in response. She passes the laptop back over to his side of the table. “Do any of those noses look similar to the suspect’s?”

“The bridge of this one is about right, and the tip of this one,” he says after studying them all, pointing out the two when she glances up from her sketch. She spends another couple minutes on her sketch before asking, “What did his eyes look like? Were they—”

He cuts her off. “I didn’t see them. He had an old Mets cap on, and the brim covered most of the top half of his face.”

“What color was the cap? And when you say old, what do you mean?”

“It was red,” he says, closing his eyes to picture it. “The color was badly faded, though, and the brim had a huge hole worn through the right edge of it. You could see a little of the wood beneath.”

“Could you see his hair around it at all?”

His mind evokes an image that catches him off guard, and he’s struck by the memory of spotting that same, familiar hat across the street through the bay window. He was there, he thinks in horror, watching us the whole time. His voice tightens as he answers, “Yes. In the back, it was curly.”

Shaylee, apparently picking up on his stress, holds off on the questions for a minute. When she does open her mouth again, she starts by saying, “We’re almost done, Dete—uh, Gil. Could you take a guess at his age?”

Clearing his throat to loosen his vocal cords, he sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, “Around my age, maybe a little younger. Forty, give or take.”

Another quick note scribbled on the corner of the sketch and she looks up. “And could you describe his build? Height and weight?”

“Average build, a little stocky, maybe,” he says with a shrug. “Probably 170 – 180 pounds, five ten or so.”

“Got it,” she mutters then, finally, turns the sketchbook around. The man depicted on the page isn’t quite right, he’s sure, and if you held it up by Paul’s actual face, the differences would be abundant. That said, it’s similar enough that the instant his eyes make contact, the hair on the back of his neck stands up. “How’s this?”

Gil nods just once. “That should do.”

Grinning, she spins the sketch back around and carefully tears it from the binding before passing it over. “Awesome. Well, if you need anything e—” she starts, but he notices JT approaching the office from the bullpen through the window in the door and stops listening.

On his feet before the door even opens, he asks, “What have you got?”

His partner flicks a glance to Shaylee then gestures with a jerk of his head. “C’mon, let me show you.”

He has no doubt the way he crowds JT on the walk back to their desks is obnoxious as all hell, but he can’t help himself, the tick of passing seconds ever-present in his ear, propelling him closer and closer to a deadline he refuses to miss. Thankfully, if it bothers him, JT doesn't say, and they arrive at his desk before the pressure building in his chest can pop him like a grape.

“So, that number you gave me last pinged near Carroll Gardens in Brooklyn,” he starts as he drops into his seat, pointing to the screen where he’s got a map open. Three cell towers are connected by solid red lines. “Killer was calling from somewhere in this area. Also, according to the phone records, dude called one other person right before you.”

Come on, he rages in his head, give me something I can use. “You got a number for that one other person?”

With an incredulous twist to his brows, JT turns to glare up at him. “The fuck you think I am, bro?” Snatching up a page from his desk, he presents Gil a printed sheet of phone records, one of which is highlighted green, with a flourish. “Don’t know if you deserve it now, though. See if I do your grunt work anymore,” he grumbles with a sour twist to his lip that belies the self-satisfied glint in his eye.

The wise-ass retort that would usually follow dies on Gil’s lips when he actually reads the highlighted number. He’d recognize it anywhere, dialed it enough times to sear it into his corneas, and the world turns a little too quickly. When he stumbles back a step, disoriented in his epiphany, his partner’s on his feet and reaching out to steady him in an instant. “Whoa, man, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, smacking JT’s hands away, fingers crumpling the page. “Looks like I need to pay the Whitlys another visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- none**
> 
> You all had to know I couldn't leave my good buddy, _Martin,_ out of this story for long! 😎👉🏻👉🏻
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We live in a crazy, crazy world, my friends. Apologies for the delay with posting this chapter, but I will tell you things are getting crazy up in this fic, too. 😏
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> I will never stop singing the praises of my amazing beta, [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa), who has helped me so immensely with this fic! You're the best, my friend! ❤

Driving the same, familiar streets gives Gil the freedom—or condemned him, depending on your view—to be alone with his thoughts, to let his body guide him to his destination with little input from his brain. It allows him time to prepare half a dozen questions for Dr. Whitly, to arrange and rearrange the words, hone them to sharp, pointed perfection to cut deep and expose the monster under the idyllic visage. Then, he readies another dozen, just in case.

When he ascends the steps and knocks on their door, he’s greeted, yet again, by Jessica’s bleary-eyed bemusement. “Gil? What brings you back so soon, has something happened?”

His first carefully crafted question bubbles up to his throat, but he catches movement in his peripheral vision. It all flies out the window as Martin steps up behind her, a broad smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. There, in the way his gaze darts down to Gil’s gun then back over his own shoulder to where the landline sits, in the sweat on his forehead and the pinprick focus of his pupils, Gil spots it: Martin Whitly is afraid. He feels a sick thrill in knowing he caused it.

“I hate to bother so early, but I was actually hoping to speak with you, Dr. Whitly, if you have a moment?” he asks, settling back into an easy stance that just so happens to square him in the center of the doorway, blocking off the escape route the doctor is clearly hunting for. Despite his best efforts, he can’t quite help the smug twist to his lips or the challenging rise of his brows. “Is this a bad time?”

Jess, bless her, wraps her robe more tightly around herself and stands aside, gesturing for him to enter. “Of course not, come in, please,” she says around a yawn. “I’ll have Louisa make us some coffee.”

He crosses the threshold into the foyer but no farther, turning instead to stare Martin down. Agitation stands out in the obvious tension of his posture and the curling of his fingers at his sides. Still, he doesn’t say a word as he leads the way into the sitting room, circles the closest settee, and takes a seat in the center, legs spread wide enough to take up the majority of the available space. His eyes flit over to the matching settee opposite, but Gil snags the bergère to his right, instead, and drags it across the rug. When he falls into it, their knees almost brush. His proximity serves only to perturb the man further, and it’s a genuine pleasure to watch him squirm while they wait for Jessica.

When her footfalls can be heard from the hall, he says, “You seem uncomfortable, Dr. Whitly, are you sure everything’s all right?”

Martin glares at him, pure loathing blazing in his eyes, and in contrast to the pleasant mask still hanging over his face, it’s quite a sight to behold. Only his wife’s approach stills his sharp tongue. “I’m a mite tired, but given the circumstances, I think I can be forgiven for it, Detective. Care to tell us what this is about? Must be pretty important for you to show up at four in the morning.”

The dig isn’t subtle, and as she rounds the corner, Jessica slaps at his shoulder, glowering down at him until he shifts to the side to make room for her. “There’s no need for that kind of attitude, dear. The man’s just trying to do his job. Please, Gil, is there some way we can help you with your case?” The last sentence softens as she turns to address him, her expression screwing up with concern.

Gil weighs his options another moment—and not only to enjoy the way the doctor’s discomfort grows at his silence. “We have reason to believe that Bright—the kid I asked you about last week—was taken by our killer.”

“What do you mean, taken?”

“I mean,” he says gravely, “the young prostitute I was looking for a week ago has been kidnapped by the prostitute killer.”

She gasps, one hand sliding up over her mouth, but Martin remains statue-still, staring at some vague point over Gil’s shoulder while his fingers twitch in his lap. The sheen on his upper lip proliferates, every inch of visible skin twinkling under the fluorescent lights. He says nothing.

“My god, that’s awful,” she murmurs into her palm, but he can already see the gears turning behind her eyes before she frowns. “But I don’t understand, why would you come to my husband for help with that? We already told you we’ve never seen him before, and that hasn’t changed in the last six days.”

“Well, actually,” Gil starts, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket to grab the sheet of phone records, “shortly before the killer contacted me, he called one other number. Your number.” He holds the paper out, and Jessica snatches it. Martin’s eyes meet his for a split second, and he spies a wicked promise in their inky depths. Go ahead, you bastard, he thinks venomously, show us both who you really are.

“This is the landline, how—” She chokes off, torn between fear and anger as she stares down at the unequivocal evidence connecting her family to the East Side Slicer. Once, twice, thrice her eyes scan over the paper, and after the third pass, she drops her hand, horror dawning on her face as she directs her attention to her husband. “The phone ringing woke me up, but it cut off after two rings. You weren’t in bed. You answered it, didn’t you?”

That finally breaks through to Martin, and he throws his hands up with a scoff. “Of course I did, Jess, it could have been someone from the hospital.”

Suspicion blossoms in her narrowed gaze. “Why wouldn’t they have tried your cell?”

“I wasn’t so sure they hadn’t,” he says, affecting his usual good-natured calm, but the exaggerated twist of his features and the jittery hand motions give him away. He’s hiding something, and with Bright’s hoarse coughing still fresh in his mind, it’s all Gil can do to keep from closing the gap between them and demanding answers. “It’s rather irrelevant, anyway. There was no one on the line, so I hung up. End of story.”

“That is _not_ the end of the story, Martin,” she cries, shoving the hand holding the now-crumpled list of phone numbers in his face. “A boy is missing, and we were first on his kidnapper’s contacts list. What the hell are you not telling me?”

Before he has a chance to answer, Gil jumps in. “I’m curious about that, as well, actually, since the call lasted just over four minutes. Kind of odd if there was no one on the line when you answered, don’t you think, Dr. Whitly?”

Her damp, furious eyes dart over to him, the wrinkle in her brow deepening, before they snap back to Martin. Get him, Jess, he thinks with glee as her upper lip peels away from her teeth in contempt, her chest heaving under the delicate silk of her robe. Just as he’s sure she’s going to launch herself across the settee, Louisa appears in the doorway with a tray of coffee cups. Reading the room, the poor woman scurries over to the coffee table and deposits the tray with a clatter, giving a half-hearted nod before rushing back out the way she came. Gil grabs one of the mugs and brings it to his lips immediately, hiding his grin against the rim.

“Jessica—” Martin starts, tone pleading even if he doesn’t mean for it to be.

“Don’t you dare,” she breathes, voice husky with distress, body beginning to shiver with it as she locks her shoulders back, a subconscious movement that puts a little more space between them. “I know, Martin. You think I don’t, but I’ve known for a while. About your late nights in the basement, about the phone calls, and all your ‘business trips.’ I thought maybe you had a woman on the side until Gil came around asking about a prostitute. I was convinced—” Her words dry up in her mouth as her doubt finally clashes against the evidence. “But instead, I find you’ve been colluding with a _killer?”_

With a growl, the doctor pushes to his feet, looking down his nose at her. “How easily you turn on me. I really thought better of you, Jessica.” And then, he marches past her, pointedly ignoring Gil as he heads for the front door and out.

For a moment, he’s tempted to chase the man down, to confront him in the street with the sketch of Paul still folded in his pocket. But Jess huffs a shuddering breath and her perfectly put-together appearance collapses. He slips over to the settee beside her, laying a comforting touch on her shoulder as she buries her face in her hands. They sit in companionable silence broken only by the occasional sob, and yet, when she raises her head, her eyes are surprisingly dry.

“I thought he was cheating on me, Gil. I never suspected this,” she whispers, boring a hole through his head with a look that begs—no, _demands_ —he believe her.

He does. “We still don’t know exactly how Martin is involved, if at all. I was going to show him a sketch of the suspect, see if I could get a reaction out of him, but now… Do you think you could—”

A derisive scoff interrupts. “Don’t patronize me, Gil. If it might help you find that boy, just show me the sketch. Please.” Something tender peeks through the stoniness of her voice, but he knows she’d resent him for calling her on it.

From his pocket, he withdraws the page, unfolding it before passing it over to her. She takes it between two fingers, hesitant to pull it closer; whether for fear of recognizing the man or of not recognizing him, Gil can’t say. When she holds it up, her mouth falls slack. “Oh my god, that’s Paul.”

The sound of his name sets Gil’s blood pressure through the roof; some part of him that isn’t stunned imagines that sort of thing can’t be good for his heart. “You know him?”

She can’t seem to tear her gaze away, scanning every detail Shaylee had etched onto his portrait. “Martin’s invited him over a couple times. He’s a friend from work, or at least that’s what he told me. You really think he’s the one killing all those prostitutes?”

Muscles spasming with tension in his lower back, Gil readjusts his position on the couch to try and hide his desperation. “The killer, when he called me, referred to himself as Paul. That can’t be a coincidence.”

Nose scrunching with disgust, Jess says, “I want to say I can’t believe it, but I’ve never liked him much. The first time he came over, I caught him alone in Ainsley’s room. He’d whittled her an angel figurine, said he went in there to leave it for her as a surprise, but something about the way he smiled at me while he talked about her…” she trails off then sighs. “Well, Martin insisted it was fine, but I never let him leave my sight after that. What did you need to know?”

“Anything you can tell me,” he rushes to say, retrieving his cell and pulling up his notes. “His last name, home address, occupation. Anything.”

“Lazar,” she says with a little shake of her head, folding the sketch back up like she can’t stand the sight of it any longer. Maybe she can’t. “His name is Paul Lazar. I don’t know where he lives, but I’m pretty sure he owns a junkyard in the Bronx. I’m sorry, Gil, I can’t remember the name.”

His shaky fingers type out what she tells him, but he hardly hears it over the sound of the victorious roaring in his ears. “No, ah—this is perfect, Jess, thank you. You’ve given me more in the last five minutes than our investigation has turned up in the last month.” Excitement thrums through him, and it’s a task to get his phone back into his pants pocket without dropping it.

Some of the darkness clouding her expression dissipates, and her hands reach across and take one of his own between them. “Gil, if there is anyone on the force I trust to get that boy—Bright, did you say?—back safely, it’s you.”

Emotion blocks his initial response, clogging his throat until he clears it. “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

A fond smile lifts one corner of her mouth. “I have no doubt. Now, don’t you worry about me, Gil. Just go get your man, and I’ll see what I can do about mine."

* * *

It’s been somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty minutes since either of them spoke, only the hustle and bustle of the station around them and the clack of keys marking the passage of time. Internal pressure builds at a steady pace, tiptoeing ever higher as every unraveled thread falls away, and Gil’s about ready to scream. In fact, he’d considered doing just that until he realized it would break his and his partner’s concentration. There has to be something, he thinks frantically as he slams full-force into another dead end.

“This motherfucker’s a ghost,” JT grumbles as he, too, leans back away from his computer screen. “He’s not anywhere in the police database, and he doesn’t have a vehicle registered in the state of New York. I did find a couple dozen junkyards in the Bronx, but not one mention of a Paul Lazar tied to any of ‘em.”

“Goddamn it,” he grits, hanging his head low over the desk between his clenched fists. The hope that had swelled during the ride to the station withers after so many fruitless searches. Not again, not now, he laments before composing himself. “I couldn’t find any record of a Paul Lazar working at St. Edwards, either, so ‘friend from work’ was just another misdirection.”

“Or it’s an alias,” JT sighs, scrubbing at his brow with a far-off look.

“It can’t be,” Gil murmurs so softly he doubts his partner catches it. When the reality of it hits him, it hits hard, and he slams a fist down on the desk. “It can’t be, or we’re right back where we started. Again.”

JT seems at a loss for what to say, just frowns at his computer monitor like it had insulted his mother. Before either of them can muster up the energy to dive back in, a scream rings out over all other sounds in the precinct, and another follows immediately on its heels. He’s on his feet in a second, bulldozing through the crowd of appalled unis on his way to the entrance. The receptionist—a kid who’d joined the team only weeks before—wavers behind his desk, hands clutching at the sides of his head, eyes nearly bugging out of his head. Standing there in the center of the room, a naked woman shrieks. Blood drips down along her neck and chest from where her dark hair has been shaved down to her scalp, patches of flesh torn clean from the glistening, exposed bone beneath. He’d have a hard time trying to identify her eye color around the engorged black of her pupils, made so by fear or drugs, he can’t tell. One of her twitching arms wraps across her breasts, the other over her genitals, in a futile effort to preserve her modesty, but the half-moon pink of one rosy nipple peeks out around her forearm, nonetheless. A few unis make vain attempts at approaching her, but each time they near, she stumbles back, the pitch of her cries reaching ear-drum-shattering heights.

“Back off,” Gil shouts, waving away the gathering horde surrounding her. When they all turn to stare blankly at him, he takes a step forward, thrusts a pointed finger back toward the bullpen. “Go on, you’re scaring her. Get out of here.”

In groups, they disperse until only the receptionist, his partner, and the traumatized woman remain. With a nod, he signals to the man behind the desk to take a seat then finally focuses squarely on her. “Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe here,” he croons, taking a single step closer to her with his hands raised passively between them. Over his shoulder, he says, “JT, go grab a shock blanket from medical,” and the sound of footsteps fade away behind him.

She doesn’t respond, but she also doesn’t shrink away, so he takes the victory with a grain of salt. “My partner’s going to get you a blanket. Can I come closer?”

Just the words alone are enough to draw a miserable whimper from her, and she shakes her head fast enough he half expects it to go flying off her neck. “That’s okay, it’s fine,” he says, ducking down to try and meet her lowered gaze with only partial success. “I’ll stay over here, I promise.”

That gets her attention, and some of her panic seems to ease. To his left, the receptionist goes back to work—or pretends to, in any case. Either way, Gil appreciates it because the longer she goes without an audience, the more of her stress bleeds away. When JT arrives with a folded blanket in tow, even her occasional whimpers have subsided. “I’m going to slide this across the floor to you, okay?” he says as he does just that, and after only a breath of hesitation, she drops to her knees—he winces at the pang of sympathy pain that shoots through his own knees—and immediately wraps it around her shoulders.

With deliberate movements, he crouches down and takes a seat on the floor a good ten feet from her. Eventually, her shivering subsides, and she casts questioning glances over his way every minute or two, each of which he answers with as gentle a smile as he can manage. When her eyelids hang heavy and every blink is lethargic, he speaks up again. “Can I ask your name?”

She swallows, wipes at both of her eyes, and sniffs before croaking, “Hayley.”

He smiles again, wide and genuine, as he says, “Thank you, Hayley, for telling me that. Now, my partner and I,” JT’s head lifts from where he’d been leaning it against the wall, “are a bit concerned with all that blood on you. Would it be all right if we called in a medical team? I’ll be right here with you the whole time. Promise.”

Burying her face in the blanket, she gives a tiny nod, and that’s enough.

He takes out his cell and dials the dispatcher, requesting just one bus sans sirens to the scene, and thankfully, they listen. The ambulance pulls up in front of the station with no fanfare, and the paramedics approach Hayley with a cautious disposition. He remains seated while they examine the wounds on her scalp and pull her to her feet, peeling back the blanket to check for other injuries. From what he can overhear, she’s relatively unscathed—physically, at least—but they still want to bring her to the hospital. Two of the three techs slip out and gather a space blanket and a stretcher, and just as one of them fluffs out the reflective plastic sheet, the passive stupor that had overcome her breaks apart. She gasps and cries “Wait!” before staggering forward in a burst of clumsy steps that, when she trips, land her squarely against Gil’s chest. Quick reflexes are the only thing that keep them both from tumbling to the floor.

“He—” she starts, one hand tangled in his jacket, and it’s then that he notices her other is clenched tight around something else. “I have t-to give you—he t-told m-me—” The rest of her sentence devolves into unintelligible sobs that wrack her frame. Before the paramedics come over to get her wrapped up and strapped down, she takes one of his hands and drops the mysterious item—a slip of paper, he realizes upon closer inspection—into his palm.

Vaguely, he’s aware of Hayley being sedated on the gurney, of the techs loading her up into the ambulance and driving away with her, but that’s all he knows outside of the note staring up from his palm.

“What did she give you?” JT’s voice comes from a thousand miles away, which doesn’t quite line up with the hand that lands on his shoulder. “Hey, man, are you—”

Gil can hear in the hitch in his partner’s breath the moment he reads the words.

> _I’ve always said if you want a job done right, don’t trust the NYPD. As amusing as it’s been to watch you flounder this past month, I’m afraid the scales have tipped, and your failure is no longer entertaining._
> 
> _Paul Lazar’s real name is Johnathan Watkins._
> 
> _Happy hunting, Detectives._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- graphic depiction of injury**
> 
> I definitely have a fire under my ass for the next few chapters because this thing is _on fire!_ If you enjoyed the chapter, I hope you'll consider leaving me a comment because nothing makes my day like reading your reactions!!!
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. So sorry it's been so long since I updated. My emotional support cat and best friend in the world passed away just after I uploaded the last chapter. It was incredibly hard to get back into the groove of writing, but finishing this chapter really helped me push through a lot of my grief. Love you all. ❤
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> My super awesome friend, [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa), not only beta'd this chapter for me, but also helped talk me through a lot of the emotional stress that hit me this week along with my other wonderful friend, [Twice_Before_Friday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday). Big thank you to the both of you.

“Man, something’s off about all this,” JT mumbles for about the hundredth time since leaving the precinct, leg jostling the car frame as his foot jackhammers against the floor.

“I know, but now that we have a name, we have to follow up on the lead,” Gil says for about the hundredth time, fighting an eye-roll if only because he doesn’t want to take his eyes off the road when he’s speeding like this. During a few moments of clarity, he's laid off the gas, but he can’t stop from accelerating back to ten, fifteen, twenty over the speed limit. The effect worsens the closer Watkins’ address—seemingly looming just beyond the horizon—becomes, and his mind won’t stop insisting he go faster, faster, _faster, hurry up or you’ll be too late._

His partner twists in his seat, one hand slapping down on the dash a little harder than he’d appreciate if he could spare a single brain cell for anything besides finding Bright. “You realize how crazy this is, right? A girl done up like one of the killer’s victims comes waltzing into the station with an anonymous note giving us the exact information we been looking for all morning?” When he gets no reaction, JT ‘tsk’s and shakes his head in frustration. “You’re too invested in this shit, man. I want to help that kid as much as you do, but planting our asses exactly where the killer wants ‘em is just stupid.”

“I know,” he whispers, chest and throat tight with apprehension and guilt; for what happened with Bright, for dragging someone else into this mess, for everything. Louder, he says, “There’s a good chance you’re right, and this is a trap. But I need you to trust me on this one.” When a soft sigh is his only reply, he asks, point-blank, “Do you trust me?”

Scrubbing both hands up his face and over his scalp, JT groans. “You know I do, asshole,” he grumbles with a glare that’s not nearly as intimidating with the obvious concern-tinged overlay on it. “But after all the shit you’ve put me through on this case, you owe me a couple years of paperwork. At least.”

Gil snorts, but his humor doesn’t last as he pulls up in front of Matilda Watkins’ house. After his parents’ passing, she and her husband, Nathaniel, took over guardianship of John until he turned eighteen, at which point he disappeared from the books entirely. Records indicate that, shortly after the retired seventy-two-year-old inherited ownership of the property from her deceased spouse, Matilda started cashing checks weekly from one Paul Lazar. Beyond that, he and his partner couldn’t dig up much more on either of them. The structure itself isn’t anything to write home about, maybe nine hundred square feet in total, including the second floor. The red brick siding has seen better days, cracked and crumbling in spots, and along the covered porch, white paint peels away from aging wood. A light shines through sheer curtains covering the only front-facing window.

As he climbs out of the car and up the creaking steps to the front door, JT moves up close behind, an unspoken promise to watch his six. Gil feels a sense of calm wash over him as he raises a hand to knock. There’s no answer for a few seconds or maybe a few minutes—it all felt about the same, anymore—so he raps a little harder the second time.

“I’m coming,” a raspy voice calls just before the door swings inward, and a woman comes into view. Short, faded red hair frames a decrepit face, one pupil completely whited out, and the lines around her eyes and the hook of her nose look carved out in the stark light. “Can I help you with something?”

Struck dumb for a moment by the sight of her, he can only stare blankly until JT gives him a nudge. Clearing his throat, he says, “I’m Detective Gil Arroyo with the NYPD, and this is my partner, Detective Tarmel. Are you Matilda Watkins?”

“Sure was the last time I checked,” she fires back with a wheeze of a laugh that does little to quell the lick of unease Gil feels at the base of his skull.

“Have you seen your grandson this evening, ma’am?” he continues, sharing a look with JT.

“Why no, I haven’t. Is my Johnny in some kind of trouble?” she asks, one hand flying up to her chest in the picture of worry.

“Would it be all right if we came inside and asked you a few questions?” he dodges, not quite ready to discover how she’d react to learning that her only surviving relative is a serial killer.

Without pause, she tugs the door open wide and waves both of them inside, grinning. “Of course not. In fact, I was just about to sit down for dinner, and there’s plenty to go around. Come on in.”

As he moves past her, he notices that her eyes don’t track his path through the doorway. They remain angled up near the ceiling above the opposite wall. Great detective work, Arroyo, taking this long to realize the poor woman’s blind, he berates himself with a wince. The hardwood underfoot groans as he and JT walk the hall, passing family photos hanging on the wall. Gil notes as much as he can from the corner of his eye, subtle even though he knows he isn’t being watched. In all that he observes, only Nathaniel and Matilda, herself, make an appearance, John’s presence conspicuously absent.

The lit room, as it turns out, is a formal dining room with a place setting off-center at the head of the table and another just to the right of it.

“I’ll go grab the food out of the kitchen. Please, have a seat.”

As she shuffles into the adjoining room, he indicates the second placemat with a jerk of his chin and mouths “someone else here.” Nodding, his partner draws his gun and sneaks back out into the hallway. Slowly, he scans the various shelves and picture frames hung askew upon the walls. Cherubic figurines, a faux-oil painting that manages to land somewhere between Rembrandt and Thomas Kinkade, and a crucifix that has to weigh at least twenty pounds all give glimpses into the austerity of Watkins’ childhood. He’s tempted to follow after JT, but before he can, Matilda reappears with three Hungry-Man TV dinners balanced on a couple potholders on her forearm, a trio of forks clutched in her fist. Carefully, she deposits each “meal” and matching silverware on the table in the vague vicinity of the chairs then takes her seat at the head of the table.

“Bon appetit,” she declares with a grin, peeling away the plastic lining over her own steaming tray.

The smell of stale gravy and turkey breast wafts over, and Gil wrinkles his nose in distaste even as he pulls up his own chair. Delicately, he picks up a fork. It would take an act of God to convince him to actually eat anything, but he does his best to fake it, cutting up the dried-out protein and swirling the mashed potatoes around every so often. He manages to last a whole forty-five seconds before laying his fork down and saying, “Mrs. Watkins, when was the last time you saw your grandson?”

With a hum, Matilda swivels her milky-white eyes his direction, and he feels it like a physical touch as they glide across him. A dollop of congealed gravy clings to her skin just below the right corner of her mouth. “Oh, I’d say only maybe… a couple of days at most. He takes good care of me, you know. Buys all my groceries, does the housework. He’s such a thoughtful boy.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to hide his grimace, just sneers and continues, “Do you know where we might be able to find him?”

A dimple forms between her brows, and she cocks her head, expression sharp as steel. “You know, you never did tell me why you wanted to talk to my Johnny, Detective. What’s this about?”

Straightening, Gil says, “We believe he may have information pertinent to a case the Major Crimes Unit is investigating, ma’am. Speaking with your grandson could prove instrumental in bringing a wanted serial killer to justice.”

At his words, the suspicion on her face dissipates, a smile spreading in its place. Something about the too-wide stretch of her lips and the vicious glint in her eyes warn that, whatever she plans to say, he won’t care much for it. “You think my Johnny could help track down that East Side Slicer, then, do you? I really don’t understand what all the fuss is about. Nothing but addicts and whores. Sounds to me like he’s just cleaning all that filth off the streets.”

The shock of her vitriolic pronouncement stills his tongue long enough for JT to return, his heavy footfalls sounding just as a swell of anger nearly knocks him to the ground. Gil darts his furious gaze over to his partner as he circles the table, huffing a sigh when he receives a frustrated frown and a quick shake of the head. Nothing. If John was never here, why did she have another place set, he wonders, glaring holes right through the cooling plate of slop in front of him like it could be blamed for the way their lead is disintegrating.

Matilda turns to the sound of the chair groaning under JT’s weight, deceptively placid despite the acerbity as she asks, “Ah, I was wondering where you’d gotten off to. Was your snooping successful, or did you need help finding something in particular?”

“Apologies, ma’am,” JT replies with ease, expression challenging as he leans back from her. “I needed to use your restroom, and I got a little lost.”

Tossing her head back, she cackles, an amiable sound on the surface, but there’s nothing but hostility in the flash of her teeth. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I would have been happy to show you there. Men really can’t stand asking for directions, hmm?”

The hair on the back of Gil’s neck stands upright, skin tingling at her incongruous behavior, from outward humor to insidious glee, her kindly mask hiding a predator beneath it. He was here, a whisper comes from the back of his mind, and it finally clicks. Whether she’s aware of the extent of her grandson’s involvement in the murders or not, her pointed words reveal enough, and her distraction worked like a charm. By now, John has no doubt cleared, not only the neighborhood, but likely the zip code, and they've lost any hope they'd had of apprehending him. He shoves himself back from the table, rattling the silverware with the force of it, and hops to his feet, chest heaving. “If you aren’t able to help us locate your grandson, Mrs. Watkins, I think it’s best we get back to our investigation.”

JT accepts his decision without protest, tossing a little nod across the table before retracing his footsteps into the hall. As Gil crosses the threshold, himself, Matilda speaks up again, just loud enough for him to hear. “Gather up the leftover fragments, that nothing may be lost.”

“What was that?” he snaps, not even bothering to turn around.

“It’s just a shame you two couldn’t finish your food, Detective,” she calls, tone sickly sweet. “I hate to waste the food God provides, but I know my Johnny will take care of it when he comes back. He’s always been good about taking care of trash.”

Overtaken by a sudden chill, Gil glances back over his shoulder and catches the contemptuous curl on her upper lip and the self-satisfied set of her posture. There’s no mistaking her meaning. As if she can feel his stare, she raises one gnarled hand and flutters her fingers in a dismissive wave. He flees before he can do something he’ll regret, stomping the cheap vinyl paneling on the way out and down off the porch.

Back in the car, the instant the door slams shut beside him, JT says, “Someone else was definitely in that house when we got there. Found a shattered picture frame in the hallway upstairs, and the window in the room next to it was wide open. Probably saw the car and booked it.”

Gil recalls John’s warning, the threat to Bright if he continued digging, and every inch of his body prickles painfully with gooseflesh. “If he knew we were looking for him, we should expect retaliation.”

From the corner of his eye, he watches as JT presses his knuckles against his mouth. “You think he’s gonna hurt the kid?”

“That’s what he promised,” he grits, bracing his forehead against the steering wheel between his hands, breathing harshly through his nose.

“Shit, Gil,” his partner whispers, “you should’ve told me.” Before they have a chance concoct a plan—however baseless—Gil’s ringtone cuts through the air, startling them both.

“Arroyo,” he answers without looking at the screen. Through the speaker, he hears the rustle of fabric against the mic and the faint murmurs of conversation, like the phone was still in the caller’s pocket. He lifts the screen away from his ear to check, and when it lights up to reveal his Jackie’s name, he sighs. Ending the call, he taps the redial button after only a second’s hesitation. As the line clicks over, he says “Hey, baby, did you need me, or did you just—”

A scream claps like thunder for half a second before it’s muffled, the slap of flesh on flesh and more rustling coming through just as the call is ended from her side. His breathing kicks up a notch, faster and shallower with each inhale, heart fit to burst behind his rib cage. In some segment of his mind not dedicated to panicking, he registers his partner’s concerned voice and the hand on his shoulder, but rather than reply, he checks his recent calls and taps Jackie’s name. This time, it goes directly to her voicemail, and he’s pulling away from the curb before he even realizes he’s started the car.

“You’re seriously freaking me out, man,” JT shouts, the edge of fear in his voice finally reaching Gil through the roar in his ears. “What the hell is going on?”

He chews on the words, jaw clenched too tight to squeeze them out. As he works out some of the tension, he wheezes, “Jackie, he went after Jackie.”

That gets the point across, and they share no more words until he parks haphazardly in the driveway. The front door hangs open wide, no light coming from within the house. He shoots up out of the driver’s seat, not even bothering to shut the door, JT’s shouts chasing him into the foyer.

Bits of shattered wood dot the floor, and Jackie’s book lies open, pages crinkled where they’re smashed into the rug. The end table sits on its side, the reading lamp, previously positioned atop it, shattered. He jerks around when he hears crunching behind him but finds only his partner, gun also drawn, taking in the damages with a stoic demeanor, wide eyes the only indication of his worry. The trail of destruction leads into the kitchen, where one of the barstools has been tipped over, a series of tears in the leather cushion consistent with fingernails dragging along it. Beside it on the floor, the knife block is missing its chef’s knife. Before he can get his hopes up, Gil finds it just outside the torn screen on the back sliding door. A bright streak of red adorns the tip.

“Get—” he starts, but the sentence chokes off on a grunt while he blinks away dampness along his eyelids. “Get ESU over here, will you?”

“Gil,” JT says under his breath, the question clear.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, staring the other man down over his shoulder until, with a sigh, he snatches out his phone and heads back toward the front of the house. After even his shadow has slipped out of sight, Gil stares after him, limbs slack at his side. “I’m fine,” he mutters to no one, lacking the energy to make himself believe it.

In the span of a breath, it seems, the whole crew comes pouring into his home, techs dusting every available surface for fingerprints and shooing him out into the backyard rather than allow him to hover and contaminate the evidence. JT joins him at the table on the back deck, collapsing back into the other available lawn chair, phone in hand, the picture of calm. He catches every flicker those dark brown eyes throw his direction, though. Eventually, Shannon rounds the side of the house, Edrisa close behind.

Hackles rising, Gil snarls and leaps up, intent on going inside, perhaps, or around the other side of the house to his car. Anywhere that puts distance between himself and his C.O. His brain stalls, however, when the man holds up his hands, mollifying.

“I’m not here to get on you about Bright, Arroyo,” he says, voice gruff to match his face, but there’s a sympathetic quality to it. Gil’s not sure how to feel. “I’m sorry about what happened to your wife, but we got our best guys out here sweeping the place. We’re going to get this son of a bitch, okay? In the meantime, I need to ask you some questions. You up for that right now?”

In the ensuing, strained hush, he’s torn between begrudgingly agreeing for Jackie’s and Bright’s sakes and telling the Lieutenant exactly where he can shove his too-little-too-late questions. John makes the decision for him in the end as his phone screen brightens, blinding in the pre-dawn light, just before the call comes through. He picks up on the first ring.

“Detective,” John begins. In the background, Gil catches the sound of rushing air and car horns. “Seems there’s been a breakdown in communication over the nature of our arrangement.”

“Where is she?” He hates himself a little for the break in his voice. “If you’ve hurt her, I swear to—”

“Shut your mouth,” comes the sharp reprimand, real irritation lending bite to his tone. “You will not take our Lord’s name in vain, not over a problem of your own making. I thought I made things perfectly clear last time, but I clearly gave you more credit than you deserved. I asked you for one thing. Just one. Do you remember what that was?”

The patronizing lilt of his words pulls a growl from his chest, but Gil says nothing.

John clucks his tongue. “You’d do well to remember that he who has a hasty temper exalts folly, Detective. Your mission was to end this case. And for that, I was willing to allow your continued relationship with my disciple. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You just don’t care for him enough, do you,” he hisses. The accusation, though unfounded, pierces right to the bone. “Well, now I’ve found someone you do care about, and the deal remains the same. You wrap up this case in seven days, or I’ll start sending pieces of both of them to you. Test me again, and you’ll be collecting a corpse within the hour.”

“John, don’t—” he cries but only to empty air. Peeling the phone away from his ear, he stares, mindless, down at the flashing numbers informing him that his world was just brought crashing down around him in a mere two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Behind him, Shannon barks orders at JT and a forensic tech, but the details elude him. Now’s the time to figure out how to help them, he reminds himself in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Jackie’s, not to feel sorry for yourself. He clenches his eyelids tight, breathes in deep, holding the cold morning air in his lungs until it burns, then exhales all the self-doubt and fear whipping his thoughts into a tizzy. When he opens them again, the world’s narrowed down to only Jackie, Bright, and the path to finding them, defined by the first blinding beams of sunlight breaching the horizon.

As he pivots, gaze brushing over the ripple of unis and techs flitting around between the kitchen and deck, the storm clouds sparking in JT’s eyes, and Edrisa’s nervous smile, calm settles over him.

“Listen up,” he shouts, and the wave of caffeine-frantic traffic freezes in place for a single heartbeat. “This is what we’re going to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- none**
> 
> We're getting into the thick of things here, my friends. I hope you've enjoyed the update and that you'll join me for the next one. I hope you'll consider leaving me a comment because they all make me so very happy to read! 🥺🙏🏻
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. What the hell is it with 2020 that makes time pass so strangely? I cannot believe it's been **5 MONTHS** since I last had a chance to update this story. I am so sorry to have made you all wait so long! I got an exchange and a big bang done, and I have so many other projects looming on the horizon. I am so excited to keep working on this and to share everything else I've got in the works for you all. For now, enjoy the new chapter! ❤
> 
> **Please be sure to check the end notes for content warnings for the chapter.**
> 
> As ever, I have to give tons of thanks to my beta and friend, [Ponderosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa). They are just a fantastic person, and I love them with all my lil mushroom heart!
> 
> P.S. I did a massive overhaul edit on all the chapters leading up to this one. So, if you haven't checked this fic in a bit, I might recommend giving it a reread! 😉

“What if Whitly was lying?” JT challenges, not because he doubts the logic, per se, but rather to temper expectations, and for that, Gil feels strangely grateful. “‘A friend from work,’” he swipes his fingers in air quotes, “is a pretty classic cover story.”

Eyes scanning the computer screen, Gil hums in response, reaching for a pen without tearing his gaze away and jotting down the last ping recorded from Jackie’s phone. Westbound on 39th in Brooklyn doesn’t offer much help, but it’s better than nothing. After crossing the last T, the pen slips from his hand, forgotten the instant it’s no longer useful, and he pushes to his feet. “Martin Whitly relishes being the smartest man in any room. If Jess asked him about it, he wouldn’t have bothered lying when he could talk circles around the truth and flaunt his intelligence, instead. He worked with Watkins.”

JT still looks unconvinced, but he nods anyway, knowing full well how ill-advised it would be to doubt his partner’s intuition once he’s got his teeth sunk into a case like this. Together, they make their way back out to the lot just as Shannon’s ancient Crown Vic screeches to a stop beside the Le Mans. For once, the rumbling growl of a voice spitting criticisms and demanding his attention barely fazes him. Gil marches past the Lieutenant’s bristling form and slides into the driver’s seat without so much as a glance in his direction. He already has the car in gear when JT’s weight drops into the passenger seat. The incessant rapping against the glass by his ear registers as little more than a mild annoyance in the seconds before he pumps the gas and pulls out onto the main road, happy to ignore the howl of rage that fades into the rumble of the engine.

From the corner of his eye, he catches the furtive squint directed at the side of his head, but with the urgency brought on by Jackie’s and Bright’s abductions, even JT’s skepticism can’t distract him from his objective. He’ll ask or he won’t, Gil thinks, fixated on the street signs overhead and the distribution of traffic as he weaves through it with precision. About a block from NY Presbyterian, a huff breaks the silence between them. “Good to have you back, man.” At the raised eyebrow he receives in response, JT elaborates. “You have any idea how unbearable you’ve been lately with your useless, mopey bullshit? Feels like I’ve finally got my partner back.”

Gil snorts, amused despite the circumstances. “Yeah, sounds like a real nightmare, Tarmel.”

“You have no idea,” JT grumbles, settling back into his seat with a twist to his lips.

The hospital looms large and bright, pristine white exterior blinding in direct sunlight. Gears grind as he throws the Le Mans into park before he’s even stopped, divested of his seatbelt as soon as he’d turned into the hospital drop-off. He climbs out in one smooth motion, nearly abandoning the keys in the ignition in his haste. In the lobby, a few dozen patients take up seats around the central check-in desk, nurses and doctors and administrative staff ducking and darting around each other in the space between. JT’s sure footsteps follow him up to reception, where they wait and wait for one of the overtaxed workers to notice them amidst the chaos.

“Hi, can I help you?” she says at lightspeed, the words all running together in her gruff timbre; Gil has to blink dumbly at her a few times before he can understand them.

“We’re here to ask a few questions about an employee of the hospital,” he replies, flashing his badge, and when her eyes slide over his shoulder, JT follows suit. “Is someone from Human Resources available? Or the administrator?”

A wrinkle creases her brow, face twitching between a thousand variations of irritation and exhaustion in a flash until she reaches for the phone, punching in an extension faster than Gil can see, fingers a blur across the buttons as the handset reaches her ear. “There are a couple detectives here at the front desk. They—yeah, they have some questions about someone who works here. Do you want—okay, I’ll let them know,” she concludes, dropping the phone back to the cradle and plastering on a tight smile. “She’ll be right down.”

With a nod, they both move out of the way, careful not to disrupt the delicate continuity around them. Impatience boils its way through Gil’s veins, every heartbeat ramping his anticipation until it’s a struggle to stand still when all he really wants to do is tear through the building for someone who can give him information about Watkins. Each second that ticks by feels like one more than he has, and just as the dam’s about to burst, to spill his cancerous frustrations out across the floor for the world to see, a woman in a plum skirt suit emerges from the elevator. Her stature and every step radiates confidence, makeup accenting the warm glow of her umber skin, though the set of her features is cold and unreadable. He tracks her progress through the lobby, and when their eyes finally lock, it slices through the uncertainty rooting him in place. The clack of her heels rises above the muttered conversation, the rustle of clothing, and the squeak of the plastic-lined chairs as she moves in close and holds out a hand.

“Kennedy Hayes, administrator of NY Presbyterian. You must be the detectives Amanda mentioned, yes?” Her voice is raspy and deep, her eyes sharp and discerning.

Tight-lipped, Gil takes her hand, giving one aborted shake before gesturing back toward the elevator. “That would be us. Gil Arroyo and JT Tarmel. Is there somewhere more private we can speak?”

A dangerous glint flashes through her dark eyes, but she nods. “My office. This way.”

The ride up to the sixth floor passes in tense silence, JT standing in one corner with his arms crossed across his chest and Gil in the other, hands clasped tightly before him. When the indicator dings and the doors slide open with a soft hiss, both men share a look behind Hayes’ back before trailing after her to an office at the end of the hall.

The wall behind her desk comprises one continuous, polished pane of reinforced glass facing out toward a beautiful view of the Upper East Side. The desk itself takes up half the space, sleek and modern and covered in stacks of organized paperwork, two side-by-side computer monitors, and a small picture frame. To the right of the desk, a set of modular bookshelves stand in a line, filled top to bottom with medical journals and magazines and textbooks, a fine layer of dust coating the wood in an undisturbed pattern around each spine. As the door falls shut behind them, the noise outside cuts off with a noticeable click. As Hayes turns and sinks into her leather executive chair, Gil wonders just how much of the hospital’s annual revenue finds its way into her pocket.

“So,” she begins, waving to a pair of wing chairs across from her then folding her hands over the calendar atop her desk, “how can I help you gentlemen?”

JT, arms still stubbornly laced, tips back into the wall beside the door, raising both eyebrows in defiance. Tamping down a smile at his partner’s antics, Gil takes a single step forward and says, “We have reason to believe one of your employees may have information regarding our murder investigation.”

Though her eyes widen for a fraction of a second, she otherwise maintains her frosty façade. “Do you have a warrant for our employee records, Detective?”

At JT’s sudden intake of breath behind him, Gil holds up a hand. “We can have one here within the hour, Ms.—”

“Doctor,” she interjects, eyes narrowing.

With an apologetic incline of his head, he continues, _“—Dr._ Hayes, but this is a time sensitive matter. You’re no doubt aware of the murders that have occurred here in the Upper East Side over the past month.”

That finally gets a reaction, and Hayes leans back, one hand clamping down on the arm of her chair while the other reaches higher, fingers hovering by her mouth. It takes her a moment to respond. “And you believe one of my employees is involved?”

“We don’t ‘believe’ shit,” JT mutters under his breath.

Tossing a warning glance over his shoulder, Gil approaches the desk and slides down into one of the previously offered seats. “We were contacted by the killer earlier this morning, a man we’ve since identified as John Watkins.” Upon hearing his name, Hayes’ eyes fall shut, face crumpling with understanding. With precision, Gil drives the point home. “As of six o’clock, he’s taken two civillians hostage. The sooner we can bring him in, the less likely he’ll have a chance to add those hostages to his list of victims. Can you help us?”

Her eyes open to slits, and she looks at him again, assessing frown twisting the lines of her face until she drops her hand. “Mr. Watkins… is no longer employed by NY Presbyterian.”

Without breaking line of sight, Gil yanks a notepad and pen out of the lining of his breast pocket. “When did he leave the hospital? And why?”

Clearing her throat, Hayes rubs a hand over her lapel, nose scrunching like she’s caught whiff of something vile just beneath it. “About three months ago. He behaved… inappropriately. It made some of the staff uncomfortable.”

“Inappropriate how?” JT presses, coming into view to Gil’s left.

“He kept to himself mostly,” she continues, a thousand-yard stare drawing her attention to something miles—or in this case, months—away. “But… problems arose when he learned that Emily—one of the administrative assistants—had an abortion this past June.” With a harrumph, JT leans forward to prompt an explanation, but Hayes shuts him down with one threatening glare. She adjusts herself in the seat, discomfort plain in the motion. “The poor girl found inflammatory notes in her locker for weeks, but no one ever saw who left them. I… recommended she simply ignore them,” she finishes with a wince, a trace of shame rippling over her face before the mask slots back into place. “As the weeks went on, the notes became more intense, threatening in some cases. When the sender revealed that he knew her home address, I ordered an emergency meeting. The staff were to keep an eye on her locker when they could. Security was to pay special attention to the locker room during their rounds.” JT scoffs, lips twisted with disgust. “How’d that work out for you?”

Hands slamming the desk, Hayes pushes to her feet, meeting his partner’s disdainful gaze with matching ferocity. “I did the best I could with what information I had. So, you can keep your snide commentary to yourself, or you can get the hell out of my office.”

“Maybe you should have called in the professionals if you wanted actual results.”

Derision in her snorted response and the slant of her brows, Hayes says, “I’m quite familiar with the kind of ‘results’ your department achieves, Detective. They show up in body bags on the regular.”

Gil stays whatever fiery response hovers on JT’s tongue with a raised hand. “How did you find out it was Watkins leaving the notes?”

Her sharp eyes return to him, but she remains standing, posture stiff. “I asked Emily to come in early for a shift to discuss potential options for ensuring her safety. She caught him breaking into her locker.”

“After we’re through here, could we take a moment to speak with Emily?” He writes the name down in his notes. “She may have some insight—”

Hayes cuts him off by clearing her throat, shuffling awkwardly back to her full height as her hands clench at her sides. “She handed in her resignation shortly after Watkins was escorted off the premises.”

Nodding, Gil sighs and scribbles over what he’d written, dismayed at the sight of the once-again blank page. “How about Watkins, then? You must have had some way to contact him.”

With a huff, she drops heavily back into her chair, one hand petting absently over her lapel again while the other reaches for a pen. As she takes up her mouse, jostling it to wake up the computer, she says, “I can’t promise this information is accurate anymore, it has been months.” He watches, eagle-eyed, as she scrawls two phone numbers and an address in a barely legible cursive on a sticky note. When she tears the note free from the pad and passes it across the desk, he snatches it from her with vigor, heart sinking slightly when he realizes he already recognizes the address. Hayes continues, regardless. “He still lives with his grandmother, as far as I know. He lived there for years before he started working here. That first number is his cell. The second one is his work number for his second job.”

His head pops up, grip tightening on the note in his hand. JT beats him to asking, “Second job?”

“Mm,” she hums an affirmative, slumping back in her chair, hands falling to the arm rests. “Said he took over ownership of some scrapyard after his grandfather passed.” Nothing on Earth could restrain the smile that forces its way onto Gil’s lips. A glance to his left reveals a similar expression on his partner’s face. As calmly as he can, he folds the note in half and tucks it into his pocket, sweeping to his feet in a move that falls somewhere between smooth and desperate. “I think that’s all for now, Dr. Hayes. We’ll call if we need anything else.”

He spins around but not before catching taut relief on her face. JT reaches the door before him, an echoing manic thrill in every line of his body, and they disappear into the hallway without another word. Each step hastens their way to the elevator, through the crowded lobby, to the Le Mans. It occurs to him that he forgot to give her his card. The note in his pocket burns.

His partner reaches the car first, blocking his path to the driver’s seat. The stern set of his features brings him up short. “No chance in hell I’m letting you drive right now. Keys.”

It speaks volumes that Gil surrenders the keys with no protest, tossing them to JT’s open hand and redirecting himself to the passenger side door in thoughtful silence. He vaguely notices the way the car sinks as he drops into it and the stutter of the engine struggling to turn over with its key in unfamiliar hands. All he knows is the phone he tugs free of his jeans and the note now searing his palm. He pulls a search bar up and enters the first few digits of the junkyard phone number when a text comes through followed by a second and a third.

He freezes at Jackie’s name.

## Jackie

####  **Nov 13, 2010** , 11:42 AM

Gil
    Something happened at work. I’m fine, don’t worry. You’ll see when you get home.

####  **Today** , 9:27 AM

Jackie
    gotvphone frm ashole poket
    in junkyrd rv to dark to see
    b not ok needvbus

“Jackie got her phone away from Watkins.” “No shit,” JT asks, both incredulous and not, like the idea of Jackie managing such a feat hardly came as a shock. “What did she say? She know where he took her?” Gil shakes his head for a moment before remembering he isn’t the one driving, for once, and his partner can’t spare a glance. “No, she says she and Bright are in an RV in a junkyard. The kid isn’t—” he clears his throat to hide the shake in his voice. “He needs a bus.”

“Shit,” comes the whisper of a response accompanied by the squeak of the leather-wrapped steering wheel under JT’s clenched fists. “Find that junkyard, and we are there, man.”

“He’s not going to take them,” Gil promises, to JT, to Watkins, to the universe, itself, separating him from the people he cares about. His hands hold rock steady to his phone as he swipes Jackie’s messages away. The number he hadn’t realized he already memorized flows from his fingertips, and the loading circle pulses. It takes years and minutes and seconds in one, the immeasurable gravity of his determination bending the very fabric of spacetime around it.

Nathaniel’s Scrapyard. The simple answer to his impossible question stares innocently up at him like it hadn’t been there all along, available in the palm of his hand if he’d only known where to look. “Edgewater Rd. By the Bronx River,” he tries to say, words slipping out in a growled half- whisper.

Somehow, JT translates the meaning, nonetheless, swinging a hard U-turn that rocks the car’s body on its chassis, shocks hissing in protest. He couldn’t say how fast they drive, lights and buildings and people blurring to watercolor outside the window, but he knows it needs to be faster. His upper half tilts forward, shoulders angling toward the dashboard, a vain attempt to add his momentum to the car’s or perhaps just a subconscious response to the way his stomach somersaults every time he imagines what Watkins may have done to Bright. Jackie, after so many years in her field, manages triage with ease, so her insistence on a bus paints a less than promising picture.

Focus, he demands, shaking his head to dislodge anxiety’s hold. He drops his phone to his lap and makes a grab for the radio, scrambling in his haste to keep hold of the microphone. “Arroyo to Dispatch, 10–18k. Requesting additional units and a bus to 933 Edgewater Rd, en route to scene of suspected hostage situation, over.” Static crackles until a feminine voice answers. “10–18k, copy, Officer Arroyo. Units three and nine en route to location, ETA fifteen minutes. Bus ordered, ETA twenty minutes, over.”

“10–4k.” Gil slams the mic down on the radio and holds his hand there for fear of what he might do with it, otherwise. “That bastard better hope Bright has twenty minutes,” he mutters through his teeth, trying and failing to control the erratic breaths making his chest heave under his blazer.

JT shrugs, a casual gesture considering the scowl etching lines into his brows, darkening his eyes, thinning his lips. “Kid’s survived a lot already. And I don’t think God, himself, could kill a man once Jackie’s got it in her head to save ‘im.”

Despite himself, Gil chuckles, hanging his head limp between taut shoulders. Fierces eyes blaze in his mind’s eye, bruised and bloodied hands curl into fists, a small but strong figure standing immovable and steadfast as a mountain between a wounded kid and a man determined to destroy him. A reciprocal faith to all that she’d placed in him swells in his chest. “I know,” he murmurs, lifting his head as the Le Mans begins to slow. “Doesn’t mean she couldn’t use a little help.”

The door creaks on its hinges as he steps out onto the pavement. Before him, the prodigious scrapyard rises ominous and dim in stark rebellion of the morning light’s attempts to breach it. JT circles the front of the car and lays a hand on his shoulder, and he draws a breath, turning to meet the unflinching gaze, matching it in turn. He faces the darkness once more. As he draws his sidearm and loads a round into the chamber with a definitive click, he sees that same solitary figure and the boy behind her surrounded by shipping containers and broken-down cars.

“I’m coming for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**   
>  **\- referenced abortion (brief and not at all explicit)**
> 
> Phew!! We are getting down to the nitty gritty, my friends, and I'm so excited to be at this point. You have all been so wonderful and patient with me, and it means the world. ❤ I hope you'll consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed this story because all your feedback helps me more than you probably know!! See you all in the next one!
> 
> For those of you who are 18+ and interested in talking Prodigal Son with a bunch of fellow nerds, drop on by the [Prodigal Son Trash Server](https://discord.gg/57U9Tm5) and say hi!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[ART] 1 - 0 - 0](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959408) by [Ponderosa (ponderosa121)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa)




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